


Chronicles of a Young God

by Rasalahuge



Series: Deus ex Mycroft [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Supernatural
Genre: BAMF Mycroft, Crack Treated Seriously, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Kid Fic, Kid Sherlock, Rivalry, Sherlock Holmes and Experiments, Sick Sherlock, probable historical innacuracy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-14
Updated: 2018-02-13
Packaged: 2018-04-26 10:02:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 32,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5000527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rasalahuge/pseuds/Rasalahuge
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just how did God end up with a little brother? What was it like having Him as an older sibling? Just how did Sherlock end up like Sherlock? The Chronicles of the young pagan god of science, adopted baby brother of the Creator of Everything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Discovery

**Author's Note:**

> Will this series ever actually end? Who even knows (not me) but enjoy this anyway and check the notes at the end for an important announcement

**Barcelona circa 1570 AD**

The ports of Europe were a fascinating place to watch the flow of life. All around people swarmed, going about their business with some urgent, unnamed need. It was fascinating for one who had devoted himself to watching. In a few hundred years humanity would develop near instantaneous communication and what free time he had would be suddenly consumed by the ever pressing constant need to be working. For now however the speed of human communication limited matters and left him, very occasionally, with several hours to spare to watch the world pass by.

If there was one thing he enjoyed it was being alone in a crowd of people, watching them go about their lives and revel in the noise and the chaos and the _life_. It was so different from the void where there had been nothing but the never-ending, never ceasing Darkness. He didn’t find it lonely, being one in a crowd of dozens, because he had always been alone. Even surrounded by his children and sharing in their love he had still been alone, it was a state of being for him. He had never known anything else, not really.

(Except for those few painfully short years when he had _known_ what it was to be just another one of them. Those short painful years where he had loved so fiercely and tried so hard and still ultimately wasn’t enough. He didn’t like thinking about those few short years. He pretended that they had never happened, that he had never known what it was to not be alone, what it was to have friends and equals.)

(He never quite managed to convince himself and he wondered what the humans would say about that – that the one thing he _couldn’t_ do was delude himself.)

This day he was spending his free time at the docks of Barcelona, leaning against a fence meant to prevent people falling into the ocean, and watching the world go by. People from all walks of life frequented the docks, he observed, it was one of the few places where the rich and prosperous mingled with the poor and destitute without even thinking twice about it. He spent some time idly watching a young rich family when his eyes caught onto something that _glittered_.

There were more things in the world than humans thought possible. There were so many things that glittered and shone on wavelengths impossible to see with the human eye. Even now, stood here, he could spot two vampires, five tortured spirits haunting the docks and one invisible cherub completing its duties. Yet this thing, whatever it was, glittered in a way that he had not seen before. This glittering thing was new and new things did not come along very often.

Moving from his position he slipped through the crowd, blending in as just another moderately rich merchant making his way from the docks into the city proper, his eyes tracking the darting, glittering thing before him.

It was wearing the form of a young orphan, he noted, and seemed to be a jumble of pagan god and quite a few wavelengths of celestial energy that should have been impossible to mix together. Definitely new and _very_ interesting. It was a good while since a new pagan god had come into existence and he was certain this one was as young as its form suggested.

“Mista, why you followin’ me?” it was also he realised _very_ quick on its feet and very sneaky. He looked down into bright silver eyes and a cherubic face framed by golden curls and smiled.

“I wanted to talk to you,” He replied crouching down so they were on the same level. If the being in front of him was human he would have said that it was a boy, aged around three. “What’s your name?”

“Don’ have one,” The child replied, receiving a sceptical look in reply. “I don’”

“That’s a pity,” He replied, “What about a family?” The boy was dressed in rags; he would be very surprised if this new pagan had been adopted by a pantheon yet.

“No- _pe_ ,” The child replied, eyes narrowing, “Why d’you care?”

“You are very young to be on your own little one,” He answered.

“’M no’ _young_ ,” The protest was quick and vehement and determined.

“You are compared to me little one,” He replied and those quicksilver eyes narrowed further and turned to study him. He could see the child’s brain whirling, calculating and coming up with the wrong answer.

“Be’ ‘m not,” That was a challenge and he chuckled. This one was wilful; whichever pantheon this little god ended up in would have their hands full.

“ _I_ met Archie-meads,” The boy insisted and he raised both eyebrows at him in astonishment.

“You met Archimedes?” That was very unlikely given the young god’s clear age. Yet the child pouted.

“Jus’ _said_ tha’,”

“Well little one, I am sorry to say that _I_ met Archimedes as well, as I knew his father, and his father’s father and all the generations before until the dawn of time,” He said simply, even if the child was lying it was an interesting claim to make, “So you do seem _very_ young to me.” There was a long pause as the young god considered this.

“Your _very_ old… do… d’you know… d’you know _my_ father?” The child was hesitant and not at all certain and He smiled gently at him.

“I’m afraid not little one, but I’m sure if given enough time I could work it out,” He couldn’t know which human had dreamt up this little god of course but if he could learn what he was the god of then he would be able to give the child some kind of answer.

“Y’coul’?” The child seemed puzzled, “ _How_?”

“Why by the simple process of deduction little one,” He answered easily, “I observe that you have very lovely pale skin and golden hair, quite a rare trait among natives here. More likely you come from the far north, where such skin and hair is common,”

“I didn’ always look like this!” The child said eagerly, “There was a pretty lady, I thought…” The child tapered off looking down at the floor in dejection, “I thought…”

“You thought if you looked like her she would take you home and be your mother?” he asked and the child nodded with a sniff. “That was very clever little one, but that isn’t quite how things work.”

“Oh,” The young god sagged.

“Do not worry though little one, I will help you find a family,” he said gently and then considered the child, “Are you hungry?” The boy’s eyes lit up and he smiled more warmly and stood, offering the child his hand. It was taken instantly, the promise of food being more than enough to get the young god to go with him.

“Now while we find something for you to eat, why don’t you tell me about meeting Archimedes?” He asked and the child looked up with bright, trusting eyes and launched into the story.

Something quiet and painful erupted in his heart. A pained ache reminded him painfully of his children when they were young. That had been a long time ago and too much time had passed since then for it to be anything but a memory and yet walking back towards the docks and the many merchants selling things to eat he could not help but think about it and hold the tiny hand in his just a little tighter.

***

The little god, he had deduced, was something very special indeed. It hadn’t taken him long to work out what the young god was and he now sat studying the child, done with the food he had bought and scribbling on a piece of parchment what looked very much like a ship. The artistry was somewhat lacking but the equations and measurements written around it were frankly brilliant. Of course along with the drawing came the constant stream of stories, most of them concerning the discoveries of famous scientists or philosophers but channelled through the bright, quick mind of a young child. 

This child that had just been wandering the streets of Barcelona as an orphan was, apparently, the god of science. Or at least the scientific process that was now sweeping through the world thanks to the combination of rediscovered knowledge, trade routes east and the printing press. The child remembered Archimedes because Archimedes was one of those early philosophers who had helped bring the god into being. This little god had been floating around for a long time without having anything as substantial as thought or form or, apparently, name. Wars, plague, lost knowledge and the premature death of so many early scientists had kept the god from taking form but equally had kept the child from being swept up by another pantheon much sooner.

He found himself grateful for that. Locked into a pantheon he suspected that this little god would have ended up like the other gods of wisdom and knowledge, brilliant, but limited. Yet _this_ one. This one could be incredible. The sheer _potential_ of this little god who absorbed knowledge like a sponge and who would, by proxy, be taught by the greatest scientific minds of the world just by simply existing, by their _faith_ in the scientific method.

This child, this lost little orphan wondering around the streets of Barcelona, had the potential to be one of the few things that could challenge _his_ omniscience. The mere _thought_ of it was breath taking.

“Mista? ‘R’you lis’nin’?” The boy asked curiously looking up from the calculations to study him. He smiled in return warm and thrilled.

“Of course,” He replied and then decided to change the topic for now, “You know little one I think I’ve worked it out,”

“Work’d wha’ out?” The child’s eyes narrowed.

“Your family,” he said and the child’s eyes widened. “Little one you are very special. There’s no one like you in the whole world,” he told the young god. “Your father is Thales. He is Archimedes, Pythagoras and Socrates. He is Kidinnu, Aryabhata, Liu Hui and Ibn al-Haytham [1]. Your family is every scientist, every curious mind trying to work the world out.”

“Tha’s a very big family,” The child didn’t seem very convinced by this and he chuckled.

“It seems that way now, but I promise when you grow bigger you will see it is a very special family,” He replied.

“Wha’ about you?” The young god asked.

“You could say I’m a friend of the family,” He replied, “I encourage them to fulfil their potential,” The child looked at him, a spark in his eyes that spoke of disappointment but aside from frowning the young god did not say anything, just turned back to the drawing.

“Will you tell me about your ship?” He said tapping the paper and the child looked back up again and shrugged faintly.

“Its jus’ a ship,” He murmured tugging the paper further away.

“Little one, will you tell me what’s wrong?” He asked and the child looked up with pained eyes. He suspected he knew what was wrong but he wanted to hear it from the young god.

“You don’ want me neither,” The boy grumbled looking back at the table, unable to meet his eyes for any length of time. He sighed and leant back in his chair studying the child.

“I’ve been alone for a very long time little one,” He said rather than answered the accusation directly, “I am not good company. You would do better with your own family,” It did occur to him however that the god of science probably didn’t _have_ a family in the traditional sense. There was no pantheon waiting for him to join. Humanity’s faith in the scientific process could, in fact, very easily erase other pantheons simply because the more humanity believed in science the less they would believe in supernatural causes for natural phenomena. Earthquakes, storms, volcanoes didn’t need gods to explain them and the humans were starting to realise this.

This child would be shunned by other gods, he knew. This child would be as alone as he was. It left a lump in his throat.

Memories of the last time he cared left him cautious however. He had cut ties with all his children bar one, refused to open himself up for a reason. It hurt. He didn’t feel emotions the way humanity did, the way his children did. Rather, in the simplest terms, he felt them far more intensely than they did. The sting of betrayal, the ache of grief, the overwhelming sorrow he felt when he let himself care left him next to useless.

Caring, he had found, was not an advantage when to care meant to make decisions that were best not made at all.

“But,” The child tore at the parchment nervously, looking ready to cry, “But you said… you said Archie-meads an’ Sock-rats and all th’ others, they were my fam’ly. Bu’ they’re _dead_. I don’ _have_ fam’ly no more,”

His heart broke.

The young god was right, the scientists whose faith had brought this child to life were not family, not really. They could pass on their knowledge, their progress and their burning curiosity but they could not care for a little god that they didn’t even know existed.

“You coul’ be my fam’ly,” The child pouted, refusing to let tears fall through sheer stubborn will, “You coul’ be my father,”

“No, no,” He intruded with a wince, “Little one, trust me, you don’t want to be my child. I am not… I am not a good parent to my children,” He looked down at the young god who was so close to tears and then spoke without really thinking about it. “But you know what I don’t have? I don’t have a brother. Would that be acceptable little one? You could be my little brother, if you liked,”

The child’s eyes lit up, bright and wide and full of wonder. The look on that cherubic face was more than enough to convince himself that this was the right decision. This little god with such infinite potential would become his little brother.

“I could?” The child said and he smiled.

“You could,” He agreed. He watched as the child looked at him and then frowned, “Is something wrong?”

“I don’ _look_ like your brother,” Was the reply. The child’s nose screwed up and the silver eyes squeezed shut and suddenly he was watching the cherubic face melt into something far more familiar. The child’s control over appearance was low, the face that appeared was still cherubic but the features were sharper, the nose more pointed like his own. Then those lovely golden curls darkened into a fine, silky black.

“Very impressive,” He told the child once eyes that were still quick-silver opened. “I suppose if you’re going to be my little brother you are going to need a name,” He said an idea creeping into his mind.

“Yeah?” The young god asked, the glittering aura around him sparking with excitement. A god’s name was important and he would not choose idly. Though perhaps the child would not understand his choice for a long time.

“How about Sherlock?” He asked and the boy frowned curiously, “It’s a name from the north, where people are pale skinned and golden haired. It means ‘golden haired’ in actual fact,” The boy’s eyes narrowed in confusion, “It’s a reminder, little one, of this day, of where you came from and how far you will go if you let yourself,” The boy thought about it, clearly didn’t understand, but accepted it nonetheless.

“Sherlock,” The young god said and he watched as the little god’s aura settled into something solid and strong. For a moment the new siblings watched each other before Sherlock blinked at him.

“Big brother,” The child said curiously and he tried not to let on how the words curled around his heart and warmed it so thoroughly. “Do _you_ have a name?”

“I have many names Sherlock,” He replied, “I tend to change it often. For now I am called Roffe[2],” Sherlock nodded seriously and then glanced around, as if trying to see if anyone was paying attention to them. No one was. The young god slipped out of the seat and darted across to him. Two tiny, startlingly fragile arms were thrown around his waist as Sherlock’s head pressed against his chest.

“’Ank you,” The child said and burrowed nose and face into his clothing. What was said next was almost lost to Sherlock’s accent and the smothering of the child’s voice by the cloth. Yet he heard it perfectly anyway.

“ _My’roffe_ ,” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] Thales – Greek Philosopher ‘father of science’, Archimedes – Greek Philosopher, Pythagoras – Greek Mathematician, Socrates – Greek Philosopher, Kidinnu – Babylonian Astronomer, Aryabhata – Indian astronomer and mathematician, Liu Hui – Chinese mathematician, Ibn al-Haytham – Muslim scientist, the ‘first scientist’. All of these were pre-Renaissance scientists who set the foundations for the ‘scientific revolution’ of the mid-sixteenth century during which this fic is set.  
> [2] Roffe – Swedish diminutive of Rolf derived from ‘fame’ and ‘wolf’ – chosen, I freely admit, for the phonics rather than the meaning.
> 
> **Announcement:** I am taking requests for this fic. I have some planned chapters but I have ~400 years to cover and I know you guys can come up with ideas I’d never think of. Just leave a comment on the fic or drop a request in my ask box on tumblr and I will do my best to accomodate you.
> 
> I only have two restrictions 1) there will be no romance for Mycroft, sorry it’s just not happening. 2) you can ask for any supernatural or sherlock character except: Lucifer, Greg Lestrade, James Moriarty


	2. Exploration

**Remains of the Aztec Empire (modern day Mexico) circa 1572 AD**

Mycroft should have remembered that there was a reason he avoided anything even vaguely close to caring.

Two years.

It had only been two measly years and already the curly haired terror he had so hastily adopted and named Sherlock had already driven him mad. There could be no other reason why he was rushing down from the remains of the temple to the docks, eyes desperately scanning the crowds in search of a tiny pale form. For a boy that was physically only three and a half years old Sherlock was quick and very talented at losing his babysitters.

It was enough to drive him to distraction. It had been less than half a century since Cortez and his men had toppled the Aztec empire, not long enough for the surviving local people to have forgotten but long enough that the local gods had finished licking their wounds and were ready to start hitting back. The Aztecs would never again rise to dominance, the destruction of their culture too complete, but that didn’t mean they wouldn’t take one look at a tiny young and apparently European god and see the chance for revenge.

Usually when Mycroft visited a country he shifted his form to blend in with the local population, it tended to make his work go much smoother. That was before he adopted a stubborn brat of a little brother who refused point blank to change his delicate features and, more crucially, his pale skin to something more suitable. He knew why the child had done it, Sherlock was still under the impression that he would be abandoned and left to wander alone again, but it was infuriating.

Panic swept over Mycroft as he suddenly became aware that Sherlock had been noticed. Down at the docks (of course he was at the docks, Sherlock was obsessed with ships) one of the local gods had spotted the little terror. He seriously considered for a moment miracling himself to Sherlock’s side but he still held some hope of this not ending in a bloody fight and so he simply sped up. Running flat out now Mycroft stopped looking for Sherlock in the crowds and simply narrowed his focus to getting between Sherlock and Tlaloc[1].

Let it be known that none of his children, born or adopted, had been this much trouble. No not even Lucifer. Or at least so he told himself.

_“Pretty little godling,”_

_“Shouldn’t have come,”_

_“Master’s going to enjoy your tears,”_

_“Poor pretty little godling, all on its own,”_

The Tlaloque [2], the stunted servants of Tlaloc, were circling Sherlock as he arrived. The child was glaring at them, a haughty expression on his face and not a hint of tears in his eyes. Brave, certainly and Mycroft was in that sense pleased that his little brother was not so easily intimidated, but also stupid. Tlaloc might be more or less benevolent towards his people, assuming they didn’t anger him, but he would not suffer the same from what he clearly saw as an interloper.

“Shoul’ leave me ‘lone,” Sherlock sniffed, “My big brother won’ like it if you hurt me,” Mycroft winced at that, winced at the inherent threat that the little boy didn’t yet understand. Not that he would let these pitiful creatures hurt Sherlock but it would make working here infinitely easier if he wasn’t forced to use more persuasive measures.

“Your big brother?” Tlaloc said watching from where he was sat on a crate nearby watching his servants circle the child god. “How interesting,” He licked his lips, exposing sharp fangs. “Tell me little godling, I saw you looking at the ships. Do you like the sea?” Sherlock probably didn’t know that was a threat, he probably had no idea who Tlaloc was.

_“Little godling likes the sea,”_

_“Ooooh, the sea, the sea, can we send him to the sea?”_

_“We’ll catch his tears and make a sea,”_

_“Yes he can sail away on a sea of his tears,”_

“I like ships,” Sherlock said his brave face faltering as the Tlaloque crept closer, looking bloodthirsty, “I wan’ t’be a pirate when I’m big,”

“A pirate?” Tlaloc sounded amused, “Dangerous job that little godling.” He tilted his face, “So many opportunities to drown,”

Mycroft had heard enough. Any advantage at learning what Tlaloc had planned was not worth the fear that crossed Sherlock’s face when he realised what it was the Aztec was suggesting. He stepped forward, knowing he probably looked just like any other human from Europe, and insinuated himself between Sherlock and the Tlaloque.

“I think that is quite enough,” He said his voice sharp. Behind him Sherlock gasped as he realised that Mycroft had arrived and then hurried to hug the back of his legs, bravery fading rapidly now he felt he was safe.

“The brother I assume,” Tlaloc said getting up from his crate. “You’re kind aren’t _wanted_ here,” An echo of power was thrown into the god’s voice, it thundered over the docks and the sky started to darken. Around them humans glanced at the skies in concern. Most of the Europeans thought only for the ships, a storm could prevent them from arriving or leaving, but the few locals looked up and muttered prayers to their parents’ gods.

“I have no intention of staying longer than necessary,” Mycroft informed the god, “We will be here less than a month and you can go back to whatever existence you can carve out for yourself,”

“How about I kill you and take the little godling and make him shed a tear for every drop of blood _your kind_ spilled?” Tlaloc snarled. The storm was gathering.

_“Master’s angry, Master’s upset,”_

_“A storm is coming little godling,”_

_“Cry, little godling, cry for us,”_

_“Master will drown the invader, destroy him,”_

“I wouldn’t recommend you try,” Mycroft replied, ignoring the constant chattering of the creatures around him. “You still have a chance to rebuild Lord Tlaloc, try to go against me and you will never rise to glory again,” A lie naturally, there was little left for Tlaloc and his fellow gods to rebuild yet he still wanted to end this without bloodshed. It was fairly clear however that such a thing would not be possible, not today.

“Arrogance and pride,” Tlaloc hissed. “All of you are the same. I will feast on your _flesh_ European and take the child as my own,”

“You can try,” Mycroft answered.

_“Feast Master,”_

_“We will feast,”_

The Tlaloque lunged, reaching desperately for Sherlock who shrieked and closed his eyes tight. A single sweeping gesture of Mycroft’s hand scattered the demi-gods even as he focused on Tlaloc. The storm above was thundering now and the humans were scattering in a panic. He narrowed his eyes even as the Aztec god attempted to summon his power to drown him on dry land.

Taking a leaf out of one of his children’s books Mycroft snapped his fingers, sharply, and Tlaloque’s power rebounded. The pagan choked, water filling his lungs. The Tlaloque cried out in surprise as they struggled back to their feet.

“Stop, now, while I still have some mercy left,” Mycroft demanded.

“No,” Tlaloc snarled.

The Tlaloque lunged a second time.

Mycroft took a deep steadying breath and then…

** STOP **

The word wasn’t said out loud. It wasn’t said in any human language, on any normal wavelength of sound. It was the echo of a Command that would not be refused. Tlaloc and his servants, pagan though they were, were born of this Earth and everything on this Earth bent to Mycroft’s Command when he used them. They stopped.

Not just their attack.

They stopped _everything_.

Including existing.

He watched, with some small amount of regret, as Tlaloc and his loyal Tlaloque disintegrated. Thousands of years of history and tradition, gone in an instant. What a waste.

“They g’ne?” But a waste that was worth it. Sherlock’s voice was suspiciously wet and Mycroft turned to look at the child, saw the tears that were starting to fall. Sherlock sniffed and overhead the storm started to fade.

“They’re gone Sherlock,” He said kneeling down by the boy.

“M’sorry,” Sherlock said burying his head into Mycroft’s chest, “My’rof’, m’sorry,”

“What are you sorry for Sherlock?” Mycroft asked and the boy looked at him blankly. “You ran off Sherlock, you left the ones I’d asked to look after you behind and went somewhere I had _warned_ you was unsafe.”

“… wan’ed to see the ships,” Sherlock said looking down at the floor.

“And if you had asked I would have agreed to bring you once my meeting finished,” He replied, “Instead you ran out on your own and could have gotten hurt or killed if I’d been any later,”

Sherlock stared up at him, clearly heartbroken and Mycroft sighed. The child might have been centuries old but his mind wasn’t much more mature than the three-year-old body he inhabited. Sherlock soaked up science like a sponge, which was only natural, but emotional understanding was not his forte.

“Come on little brother,” Mycroft said standing and offering Sherlock his hand, “Let us go and see the ships,” Sherlock brightened visibly and grabbed his hand already attempting to drag Mycroft closer to the ships.

“They have a _fluyt_ [3] , came in t’day. Can we go’on it? _Pl’se_ My’rof’,” The more excited Sherlock got the more his accent slipped and Mycroft let the boy drag him along, hiding an amused smile.

“We may be able to get one back to Europe when we’ve finished here,” He answered, “However my understanding is fluyt’s are not designed for comfort, a galleon would be better and more comfortable,”

“Can we be pirates?” Sherlock turned to him seriously and Mycroft heroically resisted the urge to laugh.

“We may _see_ some pirates, _at a distance_ ,” He conceded. Sherlock pouted, but only for a moment because then they turned a corner and the ships were spread out before them and his face lit up.

Mycroft let go of his hand and watched his new little brother run forward with an expression of rapturous fascination. Sherlock, he considered, was more trouble than any of his children had been and had, in two short years, driven him insane but he didn’t regret the decision for a moment.

“My’rof’! _Come on!_ ” Sherlock called back to him and Mycroft let out a small sigh and followed. After all it wouldn’t do for him to have rescued Sherlock from Tlaloc only for another local pagan to get ideas about attempting to harm his little brother.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] Tlaloc: Ancient, powerful Aztec god of rain. Tlaloc was highly venerated because he controlled the rains and could cause both floods droughts if angered. To appease him children were sacrificed at large ceremonies where they were ‘encouraged’ to cry by having their fingernails ripped out etc. on the way to having their hearts removed by the priests. The more the children cried the better the rains would be. He was also worshipped by the older Mesoamerican cultures under different names.  
> [2] Tlaloque, Tlaloc’s servants. I’m unclear on whether they were considered gods in their own right or demi-gods or just creatures he used as general dogsbodies. I’ve opted for the small creature-like interpretation because that’s creepier.  
> [3] Dutch sailing vessel optimised for carrying lots of cargo with little crew for trade. Very new in the 16th century but became incredibly popular from 17th century onwards because they were cheap.
> 
> **Don't forget** if there's a scene you'd like to see with God!Mycroft and kid!Sherlock leave a comment or swing by [tumblr](http://rasalahuge.tumblr.com/) and drop me an ask.


	3. Caregiving

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look! New chapter! Sorry it took so long to post - family commitments combined with writer's block did not make for efficient writing.
> 
> This chapter doesn't have a specific date just sometime a little after the last one. Enjoy.

There was a reason that the angelic host was immortal and near invulnerable. It was only partially to do with them being soldiers of God, beings to reinforce his will on Earth and in Heaven. Mostly it was for one very good reason – _they didn’t get sick_.

Unlike the very young pagan god of science.

Mycroft winced, unable to completely suppress his disgust, as Sherlock vomited yet again into the bucket he’d fetched when the child had started to complain of an upset stomach to go along with the migraines that had been bothering him for the last several days. A splatter had Mycroft wincing again and trying to remember why he’d thought illness was a _good_ idea to invent in the first place.

Yes, there was a very good reason that angels didn’t get sick.

No one sane would accuse Mycroft of being the most affectionate of caregivers and he’d been glad to skip _this_ part of raising children. It wasn’t, necessarily, that he couldn’t _handle_ vomit and the other assorted bodily fluids just that he didn’t particularly _want_ to. He wasn’t quite sure where people who did want to deal with this sort of thing came from; he hadn’t given it to them. Then again you couldn’t give a species the ability to think and develop all on their own without his input and not expect odd things to turn up every once in a while.

Then of course there was the other side of sickness that had nothing to do with the more disgusting aspects and everything to do with what most sick beings did when feeling particularly miserable.

“ _Myyyyy_ ,” Sherlock whined sounding extremely pathetic as he finished vomiting (for now at least) and started to demand both attention and sympathy. As if Mycroft being here and holding both the bucket and the child was not already a testament to the hold this little creature had on his heart. For a brief second Mycroft had the urge to hand Sherlock off to one of his usual nannies who were, at least, paid to deal with the small child while he worked. Sadly however he resisted said urge and simply sighed, hoisting Sherlock up and carrying him back to bed.

“It’s alright Sherlock, I’m here,” He murmured setting the boy down. Sherlock grabbed onto his arm and held on tight the moment it looked like he was going to be left. “Sherlock I’m not going anywhere,” He attempted to reassure the boy, “I just need to deal with that bucket,” That at least was something he could hand over to the servants but he needed to be free to move and Sherlock didn’t seem to be interested in allowing him.

“Stay,” Sherlock whined piteously, “ _Please_ ,” Mycroft sighed once more and glanced at the bucket which promptly decided it would be better off by the door rather than beside the bed. Resigned to not only getting no work done today but also having his little brother attached to his arm for most of it he sat down on the bed.

“I’ll stay if you try to rest,” Mycroft agreed, gently manoeuvring the child so he was lying on his side, curled up against Mycroft’s leg, while Mycroft himself sat back against the headboard. Sherlock went willingly and settled with a pleased hum as one of Mycroft’s hands settled down into his fine black curls.

“It hurts,” Sherlock whispered to him after a moment.

“I know,” Mycroft replied and started to massage Sherlock’s head to try and relieve some of the pain. It wasn’t as though he was unsympathetic. Sherlock was very young for a god, developmentally at least, yet the progress humans were making in science was astounding. Every scientist or philosopher in the world was conducting experiments, learning about the world and all that knowledge was being sent straight into poor Sherlock’s brain. It was no wonder the boy had migraines. It would, Mycroft knew, only get worse but at least in a century Sherlock would be older, his brain more capable of dealing with the new information. For now there was little that could be done, except to offer relief when Sherlock’s migraines got particularly bad.

As Sherlock snuffled and whimpered at Mycroft’s side he reached out into the ether between worlds and plucked at a few metaphysical energies he’d been collecting for this very purpose. To any human watching it would look like Mycroft was simply staring into nothingness but Sherlock wasn’t human. With a sniff the boy blinked and looked up, watching in fascination despite his pain.

“What’s that?” He asked.

“Something to hopefully help with the pain,” Mycroft answered. “Do you remember me telling you about the difference between pagan gods and personifications?” he asked. After the mess with Tlaloc Mycroft had been sure to add pagans to Sherlock’s lessons if only so the boy knew to avoid them next time.

“Faith in a con-sep,” Sherlock’s nose scrunched up at the less familiar word, “against the con-sep itself?” He frowned, not fully understanding.

“After a fashion.” Mycroft acknowledged, “Pagan gods are beings of Faith. Humanity brings them into being, simply through belief. You, my dear little brother, are belief in science,” He tweaked one of Sherlock’s ears and the boy smiled at him though Mycroft could see the pain written on his face still. A distraction would help. “Personifications occur when metaphysical energy starts to get drawn to a concept. War, for example. Humans are always thinking about the philosophy and nature of war, they don’t _believe_ in it, they don’t have _faith_ in war except perhaps that it always happens, but that amount of consideration draws energy to it. Those energies merge and grow in strength and eventually a personification comes into existence.”

“So War’s a person’fic-a’shen,” Sherlock said frowning. “Can I meet him?” He looked up and Mycroft chuckled.

“I think this century ‘he’ is a ‘she’,” Mycroft said, “Though War does like to switch things up regularly. But no, Sherlock, you wouldn’t want to meet War.” He smiled down at Sherlock, “War and science go hand in hand; it both holds back progress and advances it.” Sherlock was a little young to make that connection yet, the knowledge he was gaining was just knowledge right now but it wouldn’t be long before the minor territorial squabbles that were more or less continuous gave way to something bigger. Then even a child as young as Sherlock would be able to feel the connection.

“What’s person’fic-a’shen’s got to do with that?” Sherlock said pointing at the ball of energy that Mycroft was still manipulating.

“This energy is the metaphysical energy tied to the concept of omniscience,” Mycroft answered, “I sweep it up regularly because that’s a dangerous idea to have floating around and even more dangerous to let it accumulate into a personification.” Mycroft knew from experience that omniscience was not all it was cracked up to be. He could, and often did, switch his off because there was nothing in the world more boring than knowing everything before it happened but a personification wouldn’t have that choice. Besides, “Most of the thought about omniscience is directly tied to me anyway,” An even more dangerous concept if he allowed it to become a personification, as that personification would be humanity’s idea of him which was not quite the same as _him_. Not given the number of contradictory and hypocritical thoughts and beliefs.

“Oh,” Sherlock said, probably not quite comprehending but then he was very young and his head was probably hurting quite a bit. Mycroft smiled indulgently and plucked a few threads of the metaphysical energy from the ball he’s gathered and fed them into Sherlock. The glittering energy that made up the small god sparked with interest and then with delight as it absorbed the energy nicely.

When Mycroft had first met Sherlock he’d noticed the extra wisps of metaphysical energy, nothing special but nothing that was meant to be part of a god either. It was that extra energy that had given him this idea. The addition of just a spark of omniscience would allow little Sherlock to process his new knowledge just a little better than an average four year old – which was where Sherlock was developmentally – and ease the migraines.

“ _Ohhh_ ,” Sherlock sighed his grey eyes sparking bright silver for a minute.

“Better?” Mycroft asked gently.

“Doesn’t hurt as much,” Sherlock whispered looking at Mycroft in amazement. For a second they simply stared at one another and then Sherlock’s face lit up with the most brilliant of smiles and he lunged forward to hug Mycroft as tightly as he could.

The sensation of little arms around him made Mycroft’s heart ache with affection and with joy. He leant down and pulled Sherlock up so the boy was nestling against his chest and Mycroft’s arms were fully around him. The boy was clammy from sweat and smelt of slightly stale vomit but for once Mycroft didn’t mind, he simply pressed a kiss to Sherlock’s curls and held him tighter.

“Tell me more ‘bout person’fic-a’shens,” Sherlock demanded.

“As you wish,” Mycroft answered dismissing the extra metaphysical energy back to where he stored it. Sherlock was still sick and still processing a large amount of information, probably this little lesson wouldn’t stick in his mind but Mycroft found he didn’t mind. He’d just tell the boy again another time. 

He was also surprised to find that he didn’t quite mind so much when Sherlock whined of not feeling well. He still disliked the idea of caring for someone who was sick, he still refused to be one of those affectionate caregivers, but with the tiny, warm body curled up against him and a pair of wide trusting eyes watching him Mycroft found it hard to remain reluctant.

Maybe he should have let angels get ill after all, if it meant these sorts of cuddles from adorable children…

No. Mycroft winced at the thought. No, just no.

_Just imagine Lucifer or Gabriel ill_. He told himself sternly. _Someone would have ended up being smote._

Yes, compared to those two, Sherlock was an ideal patient.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't forget to submit any requests for chapters you'd like to see. Also I'm adding to the rules.
> 
> You can ask for any Sherlock or Supernatural character **except** for: Greg Lestrade, James Moriarty, Lucifer and **Amara** ( _I have sooo many plans you wouldn't believe_ )
> 
> However with the publication of 'Ineffability' you can now also ask for any character from **Good Omens**. The rule about Mycroft  & romance remains as it is.


	4. Experiments

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Minor trigger warning for very brief harm to a child. See notes at end of chapter for more info.

**c. 1578**

“You want to _what_?” Mycroft blinked down at the child in bemusement.

“Experiment!” Sherlock insisted, “Like the other scientists!”

Well that wasn’t terribly unsurprising, Mycroft told himself, Sherlock _was_ the god of science he would want to experiment eventually it’s just Mycroft hadn’t really expected to be having this conversation already. Sherlock may technically be centuries old already but he had the looks and maturity of the four year old whose form he took. Precocious four year olds might enjoy experimenting with the world around them but Mycroft very much doubted they drew up complex and scientifically accurate experiments before presenting them to their caregiver. He glanced down at the papers in his hand, completely unsurprised that the experiment involved ships, floating and water displacement. Well Sherlock was hardly an average four year old, if he wasn’t then he wouldn’t be Mycroft’s little brother.

“I see,” he said neutrally, buying some time for him to think about this request. On the one hand Sherlock was clearly invested in this and Mycroft was all for encouraging Sherlock’s potential, the experiments might help him organise his growing mind and the constant stream of information he was receiving as well. On the other hand Sherlock was a force of nature and difficult enough to keep from causing chaos at the best of times, Mycroft pictured the damage Sherlock could do with one poorly thought out experiment and promptly wished he hadn’t.

“Mycroft _please_ ,” Sherlock begged, his eyes widening in desperate plea. It was the same look that Sherlock had given him the day they met that led to Mycroft adopting the brat and unfortunately for Mycroft he was no more immune to it now than he had been eight years ago.

“There will be rules,” He decided to lead with the limitations but knew it wouldn’t be enough. Sherlock was already squealing with joy and he sighed in resignation. At least, he supposed, Sherlock was only the equivalent of a four year old and hadn’t come into many of his powers aside from changing his appearance. He couldn’t do too much damage like that, surely?

**Rule 1: No killing anything ******

The scream was what alerted Mycroft to the problem. It was a child’s scream of horror and fear and pain that had him out of his office and down the hall to Sherlock’s room in a heartbeat. Mycroft barged into the room and came to a sudden and dramatic stop as he took in the scene before him. Sherlock was kneeling on the floor, unhurt but distraught, looking at Mycroft and not at the very quiet basket.

“Oh _Sherlock_ ,” Mycroft sighed as the boy’s eyes pooled with tears. He’d put the first rule in place for exactly this situation. Sherlock might like to pretend he didn’t care about anyone other than Mycroft but he did and to find him staring at the dead kittens that had minutes ago been playing happily made Mycroft’s heart ache.

“I didn’t… I thought… I just…” Sherlock was overwrought, unable to even find the words. Mycroft simply sighed and wrapped the boy up in his arms, pulling him away from the bodies.

“I know little brother, I know,” The child sobbed in his arms and Mycroft sighed and wondered if he could break his own rule and resurrect the kittens, just this once. Unfortunately however Mycroft knew better, he’d made that mistake once before, it only led to another accident and then another. Sherlock would learn this lesson and hopefully there would never be a repeat of it, until then he would hold the little boy and comfort him.

**Rule 2: No animal cruelty ( _including_ insects Sherlock)**

“But they’re just cockroaches!” Sherlock protested as Mycroft removed the box of insects from his reach, the creatures were all struggling to escape and failing given that Sherlock had pinned most of them to the bottom of the box with pins.

“Nothing living is _just_ anything,” Mycroft replied sternly, “They might not be as complicated an organism as you are but that doesn’t mean they deserve to suffer at your hand,” Sherlock pouted and Mycroft’s eyes narrowed, “Would you like to feel their pain little brother? I can give you a taste if you like. Maybe then you won’t disparage less complex creatures,” He asked pointedly and Sherlock looked up at him. His eyes were narrowed, his lips pursed as if he was trying to figure out if Mycroft was bluffing or not and whether it would be worth the data if he wasn’t.

“Yes,” Sherlock said after a minute and Mycroft raised an eyebrow.

“Really?” he said and Sherlock nodded eagerly.

“ _Yes_ ,” His eyes sparked with challenge, as if he knew Mycroft wouldn’t do it. Unfortunately for Sherlock Mycroft never bluffed.

“Alright,” He said and waved his hand. Sherlock let out a surprised gurgle as the feeling suddenly struck him. Muted of course, Mycroft wasn’t cruel and Sherlock couldn’t process pain the way cockroaches did anyway, but just enough to prove the point. Sherlock’s eyes widened dramatically even as Mycroft ended the transfer of pain, for a long moment the two siblings stared one another down. Then…

“Do that again!” Sherlock jumped up in delight, “It was so _weird_!” Mycroft groaned that was not the reaction he had been going for. Sherlock _never_ did what was expected.

**Rule 3: You break anything, you fix it. From furniture and books to the fabric of reality.**

“ _Sherlock!_ ” Mycroft groaned as he stared at the space that had until recently been the wall of the house they were staying in. Sherlock turned back to him, wide eyed.

“It was an accident!” He cried and ran to hide behind Mycroft’s legs and hug his knees.

“Well I didn’t think you’d done it on purpose,” Mycroft said looking up at the gaping hole in the fabric of reality. On the other side of the portal he saw a pair of very confused looking humans in clothes that weren’t due to be invented for at least another four centuries. “How did you even…?” Mycroft started to ask but then realised he didn’t actually want to know.

The two humans were now reaching for weapons. Well, Mycroft sighed to himself, it was either that or run screaming from the room like Sherlock’s nurse had. Granted he couldn’t really blame her because no one expected to see a child open up a temporal portal to the future.

“Do I have to fix it?” Sherlock asked uncertainly, shuffling around so he could peer out at the two humans. They were arguing now. The taller one, with floppy hair and a wide eyed look that rivalled Sherlock’s, was gesturing while the other one, who was ridiculously pretty but also very angry, was pulling a piece of technology that definitely wasn’t meant to be around until the next millennium out from a pocket. Mycroft decided it was probably time to shut this down before either of them thought to call for someone who might recognise him.

“While it would be interesting to see you try I think, in this case only, I’ll fix it for you,” Mycroft said lifting his hand and making a complicated gesture. The two humans startled as the portal started to close and within moments it had disappeared entirely and the wall of the house had returned. Sherlock clung tighter to his legs for a second before creeping out, assured it was now safe.

“Mycroft?” he said turning wide eyes on his big brother, “What-was-it? Who-were-those-people? What-were-they-wearing? What-did-that-man-get-out-of-his-pocket? What-were-they-arguing-about?” The stream of questions came out so fast that they almost slurred together.

“Let a few mysteries remain mysteries,” Mycroft replied. He wasn’t explaining the future to Sherlock; the boy would probably try to recreate it now despite the distinct lack of electricity and that wouldn’t end well for anyone.

**Rule 4: If you need something, ask for it. Don’t try to get it yourself, especially if getting it involves illegal activity.**

“I’m sorry _what_?” Mycroft said staring at Sherlock’s nurse who, he noted, was here interrupting his very important meeting _without_ Sherlock.

“I’m sorry Sir, it’s my fault Sir,” She bowed her head, wringing her hands, “I didn’t keep a close enough eye on him Sir,”

“Where is he?” Mycroft asked trying hard to resist the urge to swear.

“Well…” The girl started.

Half an hour later Mycroft was stood staring in disbelief as one small, apparent four year old glared at him through the bars of a gaol cell.

“You arrested him,” Mycroft said flatly and the officer beside him fidgeted nervously.

“Uh… well he was stealin’ Sir,” The man said, obviously flustered.

“He’s four,” Mycroft continued to stare as Sherlock continued to be completely and utterly unrepentant.

“Stealin’s, stealin’,” The officer said and then flinched as Mycroft turned his eyes towards the man, “Wit’ all due respect Sir,” He bowed his head briefly, “Them’s that start young…”

“Finish that sentence and _you’ll_ be the one losing a hand,” Mycroft said, his voice as dark as he could humanly make it. That was nothing on how dark he could make it of course but more than enough to leave the officer quailing in fear. “Release him,” Mycroft demanded and the man visibly hesitated. “Release. Him. Or I’ll be speaking to the governor,” Mycroft repeated and the officer swallowed but stepped forward to open the cell.

After that it was the work of a few minutes to whisk Sherlock out of the goal and into the sunlight, at which point he rounded on Sherlock and raised an eyebrow.

“Apples Sherlock?” Mycroft demanded, “What was wrong with the ones in the house?”

“They were the wrong kind,” Sherlock folded his arms. A warning sign that he was about to go into a truly epic sulk.

“The wrong kind,” Mycroft pinched the bridge of his nose. “And why did you need the right kind of apples?”

“Experiment,” Sherlock replied mutinously, which was about what Mycroft expected.

**Rule 5: Do not lie to me. No really, don’t even try.**

“Sherlock did you have anything to do with the HMS Artemis blowing up this afternoon while in dry dock?” Mycroft enquired.

“No,” Sherlock looked up from his schooling books which he was pretending to study and stared at Mycroft wide eyed and innocent. Too innocent. “A ship blew up? Can we go see? Please Mycroft!” He bounced up and down in his seat and Mycroft snorted.

“I don’t think so. Perhaps if you hadn’t just lied to me we might have.” Sherlock sagged, knowing the game was up, “Do you remember the rules about experiments little brother?” Mycroft enquired.

“No one was hurt!” Sherlock protested, “I made sure no one was there!”

“I was thinking more along the lines of ‘you break it you fix it’ and ‘don’t ever lie to me’ but while we’re on that subject,” Mycroft said stalking forward and grabbing Sherlock’s hands which he had tried to hide under the table. They were badly scratched and burned, “Someone did get hurt Sherlock. You did. You got hurt and you tried to lie to me about it.”

“It’s only a scratch,” Sherlock mumbled as his hands healed before their eyes.

“No experiments for a month,” Mycroft informed the child.

“But _Mycroft_!” Sherlock protested and Mycroft just looked at him. “It was a stupid ship anyway,” he sulked crossing his arms against his chest, “Would have sunk in the first storm. I was _helping_ them,”

“Then you can redesign it so it won’t. You have a whole month of no experiments in which to do so,” Mycroft said smugly and Sherlock glared at him. “Go on,” Mycroft nodded and Sherlock sniffed petulantly but turned and pulled over some fresh paper to start working anyway.

**Rule 6: If you’re stuck, ask for help. I _do_ know everything after all.**

“Mycroft,” Sherlock squirmed from his seat on Mycroft’s lap trying to get out of his brother’s hold but Mycroft held on tight.

“Shh, just watch Sherlock,” He murmured, refusing to let the child go. Sherlock squirmed some more but did, eventually, turn back to watch the little spark travel along the slow match. If Sherlock had his way he would be much closer to this latest experiment but Mycroft had tight hold of him and was not going to let the child get even closer.

After the incident with the ship Mycroft gave into the universal truth – children that weren’t frightened of loud noises adored explosions and Sherlock was no exception to that. So rather than let the little god of science run off and blow things up without supervision again Mycroft had chosen to take him out of the city and into the foothills where they could safely ignite some gifts he’d brought back from his last trip to China.

“This is _boring_ Mycroft! Nothing’s happening…” Sherlock whined just as the slow match burned out.

A soft whump accompanied the tubes setting alight and shooting up into the air. Sherlock gasped as his eyes followed it, delighting in this much.

When the fireworks exploded, the sound reverberating around the hills, Sherlock’s gasp turned to a cry of sheer glee. Up above them the sky was lit up with brilliant colours, sparks falling like golden rain. Mycroft however was not looking at the fireworks, he’d seen many of them in his time of course, but rather he was looking at the enchanted expression on his little brother’s face.

“It’s not an exploding ship, but will it do?” Mycroft murmured in Sherlock’s ear.

“It’s _perfect_ ,” Sherlock replied with open adoration written on his face and Mycroft smiled.

“Good,” He said and turned his eyes to the sky, silently setting off a few more of the fireworks with just a thought. This was one experiment even he could appreciate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: Mycroft purposefully inflicts pain on Sherlock to teach him a lesson about torturing animals for science. The pain is very mild, barely more than a sting, ends quickly and Sherlock isn't hurt or upset by it in the slightest. However if this sounds triggering please skip the section under 'Rule 2'
> 
> Don't forget to leave any requests for chapters &/or characters!


	5. Competition

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Friendly reminder: Remiel|Ianthe = Anthea

**c. 1603**

“Who’re you writing to?” Sherlock asked poking his nose over the edge of Mycroft’s desk.

“Someone,” Mycroft replied not looking up from the letter he was composing.

“What’re you writing?” Sherlock persisted.

“Something,” Mycroft answered and heard Sherlock sigh, far too dramatically. “Aren’t you supposed to be in lessons right now?” He asked his little brother.

“Nurse dismissed me,” Sherlock answered pushing his way closer to try and get a look at the letter. “I think I broke her,”

“Another one?” Mycroft asked, because of course he had. Sherlock went through nurses ridiculously quickly. “What did you do this time?” Mycroft sometimes daydreamed about finding a nurse that would last long enough to notice that Sherlock didn’t age the way human children did but it was a futile hope. Humans, sadly, were just not designed to be able to cope with a wayward god of science.

“I was bored,” Sherlock defended and Mycroft looked up at him at last and watched the child squirm. “She didn’t believe me when I said I already knew Latin!” He complained and Mycroft held up a hand.

“No wait, don’t tell me,” He could already imagine, “I’m sure when your nurse comes to tender her resignation I’ll hear all about it.” He said and then turned back to his letter. Sherlock continued to stand there bouncing on his feet. “Is there something you need?” Mycroft asked after a moment.

“I’m still bored,” Sherlock complained.

“Don’t you have experiments to run?” Mycroft asked and Sherlock pouted.

“You banned me from doing all the good ones,” he complained.

“All the ‘good ones’ as you put it involved fire or explosions in some way shape or form,” Mycroft informed the child, “We’re currently on a ship. Ships and fire do not mix well,” Sherlock sighed dramatically once more. “Why don’t you go bother the crew? I’d have thought you’d be running all over the rigging again,” That was usually what happened when Sherlock ended up on a ship, running around asking questions about sailing and pirates from the crew.

“The Captain shouted at me,” Sherlock pouted. “Apparently I was getting in the way,” So not only had he alienated his nurse while they were stuck on a ship but the Captain as well and they were still two days from the next port and three weeks from their destination. Wonderful. Well at least he’d have help managing the little terror once they’d stopped in Singapore.

“Very well,” Mycroft said hauling Sherlock up onto his knee, “You wanted to know about my letter?” He asked and Sherlock nodded eagerly. Most of Mycroft’s work would go over Sherlock’s head but that was alright, Mycroft was well aware that Sherlock just wanted to listen to him talk anyway.

Two long days, a tearful confrontation with Sherlock’s now former nurse and a tense confrontation with the Captain and they were finally pulling into Singapore. They’d stay for one day before setting off again for Hong Kong with fresh supplies. The former nurse departed with a good reference and money for a ship back to Europe and Mycroft waited patiently for their new passenger with a small sense of relief. He’d need to find a new nurse when they reached China but for the remainder of the voyage he wouldn’t be alone in keeping Sherlock occupied.

Speaking of which Mycroft glanced to one side and upwards. Sherlock had manged to perch on the railings despite having all the dexterity of a five year old. He hadn’t toppled over yet into the sea below but it was only a matter of time. Mycroft sighed.

“Sherlock!” he called out and Sherlock glanced down but obediently climbed down so he was hanging from the railing, on the ship side of course, and peering over it at the activity below. No matter how many voyages they went on Sherlock remained fascinated by everything to do with ships, which was fortunate because it kept him occupied while the ship was restocked otherwise Mycroft would have to take him out into Singapore and he wasn’t entirely sure that Singapore would survive that.

A stir among the sailors caught his attention and he smiled. It would seem she had arrived.

The woman that approached was young, curvaceous and had a secretive smile that would have drawn plenty of attention alone. The fact that her dark hair was cropped short and she wore form fitting doublet and hose with a sword displayed openly rather than a dress meant that everyone turned to watch her pass. Singapore had many sights and many people who did not fit the cultural norm but she stood out among even the more unusual inhabitants and put those who watched her pass on edge.

“My dear you are attracting attention,” Mycroft called to her from where he leant against one of the crates waiting to be loaded onto the ship. The woman turned to him and smirked. Behind her a pair of glorious wings spread wide in welcome and joy just out of the realm of human perception.

“That was rather the point Sir,” She replied promptly.

“How many times has someone attempted to have you executed for witchcraft since I last saw you?” Mycroft enquired.

“Just three,” His angel pouted but her eyes were dancing, “But if I get arrested three more times for public indecency I’ll make a round fifty,”

“Fifty since I last saw you?” That had been more than three decades ago, their work regularly took them to opposite ends of the planet. Fifty was somewhat low for thirty years, at least when she was involved.

“This _year_ ,” She answered with a slightly offended expression and Mycroft chuckled. That made a lot more sense. He pushed up from the crates and stepped forward, pulling her into an embrace and pressing a kiss to her cheek.

“My dear Remiel, I _have_ missed you,” Mycroft hadn’t seen most of his angels in more than fifteen hundred years but Remiel was one of those he found himself unable to part from. Mostly because she wouldn’t _let him_. She had a knack for finding him and making herself invaluable that her siblings didn’t share and he had given up trying to avoid her somewhere in the tenth century.

“You had better,” Remiel answered kissing his cheek in reply. “Who’s the glittery child?” She asked and Mycroft blinked and then turned to find Sherlock staring at them with a complicated look on his face.

“That’s Sherlock,” He answered simply, “He’s the god of science,”

“Oh god, you’re adopting strays again,” Remiel said with only a small amount of irony, “Need I remind you what happened _last time_?” She frowned.

“This is a completely different situation,” Mycroft huffed, “And… wait, why am I trying to defend myself?” he asked her, bemused, “Who’s the parent in this relationship?” he asked and Remiel smirked at him.

“You’re adorable when you’re flustered,” She informed him before breezing past and up the gangplank onto the ship. Mycroft huffed again but turned and followed her up.

“Who are you?” Sherlock demanded the moment Remiel reached the deck. “ _What_ are you?” Sherlock added his eyes roving over the angel’s wings withy greedy fascination.

“I’m an angel,” Remiel answered kneeling down by the child studying him back just as intently, “My name is Remiel but right now I’m going by Ianthe[1].”

“Remiel is my personal assistant Sherlock; she’ll be travelling with us to China.” Mycroft informed the child. Sherlock frowned and studied Remiel once more.

“Is she a pirate?” He asked.

“Not right now,” Remiel replied, “But I have joined pirate crews in the past,” Sherlock considered this and then nodded.

“Very well,” He said magnanimously. As if he had any say in whether Remiel came with them or not.

***

Mycroft should not have let Remiel come with them. What had he been thinking? Sherlock and Remiel stuck in an enclosed space for several weeks and no means of escape (or at least not one that wouldn’t be noticed by the humans) was a recipe for disaster. Mycroft was intimately familiar with Sherlock’s driving need to be the centre of attention, or at least the centre of Mycroft’s attention, and struggled to share him with work at the best of times. Now he had to share Mycroft with Remiel, who was also used to having Mycroft’s sole attention when she was with him.

The first few hours had gone well, then Sherlock’s sharp ears caught Remiel calling Mycroft ‘Father’ instead of ‘Sir’ and the whole thing came down around Mycroft’s ears. Within a day a heated competition for Mycroft’s favour had sprung up between angel and god and Mycroft was left wondering whether it would be worth supressing his own immunity to alcohol long enough to get drunk.

It had started simply enough, with Sherlock tugging at his hand babbling about experiments while Remiel glared and tried to discuss work. Sherlock, naturally more dramatic, was the one to escalate by using some paperwork for schematics of his next experiment which left Remiel spitting in fury. She then countered by hiding all of Sherlock’s notebooks with the carefully organised notes and results from his experiments which left the child screeching hysterically because even when he found them they had all been jumbled up and his system ruined.

Sherlock then bribed one of the sailors to distract Remiel by whatever means necessary so he could beg Mycroft to read to him instead of work. After Remiel punched the man who was stupid enough to try to seduce her and then refused to take no for an answer she paid off a different pair of sailors to lock Sherlock in an empty barrel for several hours. That one, at least, had backfired on both of them after Mycroft learned what happened. He had promptly transferred the thug with the broken nose and jaw to the most unpleasant prison on Earth and made the rest of the crew forget he had even been on the ship in the first place. The second he had freed the sobbing, terrified child from the barrel and then spent the next several hours calming him down.

It should have been a sign that they were both taking this too far but if anything the proof that Mycroft did care about both of them and their wellbeing made it worse. Sherlock sent Remiel a smug look from Mycroft’s arms, purposefully irritating her, and Remiel’s eyes narrowed, calculating.

What followed was the race through the rigging, the mysterious ruination of the evening meal, the disappearance of no fewer than three sailors including the first mate for nearly two hours and finally the stalking of the ship by a literal flock of hungry albatross.

By the time the explosion went off Mycroft was seriously considering locking both of them in Sherlock’s cabin and ignoring them both for the rest of the journey however pointless that was. If he remembered anything from Michael and Lucifer’s demands for his attention it was that once they reached a certain point in an argument it became self-sustaining and him ignoring them made it worse, not better. Sherlock and Remiel had passed that within a day.

Still Mycroft had had enough. It wasn’t clear whether Sherlock had gone ahead with one of his dangerous experiments in an attempt to secure Mycroft’s attention even for something he’d been forbidden from doing or if Remiel had purposefully sabotaged the experiment. Mycroft frankly didn’t care. They were putting the safety of the ship at risk. It was time to do something about this little situation.

He had a brief conversation with the Captain and then summoned the two of them to the cabin he had taken over as his office.

“Remiel, Sherlock inside. Now,” He ordered. The two of them took one look at his thunderous expression and did as they were told, Mycroft followed them in behind. “Frankly I am stunned,” He said shutting the door behind him pointedly. Two pairs of wide eyes stared at him innocently but it wasn’t going to work this time.

“An explosion? _On a ship_? I don’t know who was behind it or why but frankly I don’t care. You both know better than this. This ridiculous, moronic competition you two have started is to end, _immediately_ ,” Mycroft informed them shortly crossing to his desk and slamming his hands down on it so he could loom over both of them. “I have seen and heard enough. I won’t have it anymore. Sherlock; Remiel is family and I expect you to treat her as such. You have been spoiled for my attention until now, competing only with my work, but you are not, in fact, the centre of the universe no matter how much you may wish to be.” Sherlock sniffed eyes watery and Mycroft felt his heart ache even if he refused to let it show on his face. “You are young yet little brother, despite your brilliant mind; you’ll come to understand that it is possible to love more than one person at once. I don’t love you any less for Remiel’s presence just as I don’t love her any less for you spending more time with me.”

Sherlock stared at him wide eyed and trembling, rendered mute for once.

“I expect you to apologise to Remiel.” Mycroft ordered glancing at the angel who was watching with tight eyes and pursed lips and Mycroft knew she was already feeling fairly guilty. Good, because she was not getting out of this as easily as Sherlock would.

“M’sorry,” Sherlock mumbled, upset and clearly mutinous but it was an apology and that was enough for now.

“Good. Now, go and get yourself ready for bed. I will be along shortly to read to you before you go to sleep,” Mycroft said and Sherlock’s eyes brightened just slightly and the child nodded, darting from the room.

“Father…” Remiel began the moment the door to the cabin slammed shut but she broke off quickly as Mycroft let the weight of his displeasure rest on her shoulders. Her wings fluttered nervously as her eyes fell to the floor, downcast.

“Leaving aside the part where you entered into a, frankly, ridiculous competition with a _child_ I really expected better of you Remiel. You are a Principality, more than old enough and astute enough to remember what happened last time one of my angels tried to get my sole attention,” He said his voice quiet and dangerous.

“I remember,” Remiel murmured her voice thick with emotion.

“I allowed you to come with me when I left because I needed an assistant and you were, by far, the best choice. Reasonable, efficient and without the dramatic streak your older siblings have. Now you are getting into a needless, pointless fight with a child?” Remiel flinched, “Do I need to send you back to Heaven?” Mycroft asked, seriously and Remiel’s eyes flew up, wide with panic and fear.

“No!” She protested, “Father please do not!” She bit back whatever her next words were, perhaps sensing that whatever they were Mycroft didn’t want to hear them. She took a long steadying breath, “I don’t fit into Heaven, I never did and I suspect the fit would be even more uncomfortable now,” She admitted. “I love the work here on Earth, I love watching humanity grow. I am sorry; about Sherlock, I knew it was wrong, that you weren’t pleased but he just… it’s been a long time since you brought someone into the family.” She trailed off, clearly knowing how she sounded.

“He knows where the sore spots are,” Mycroft finished for her. “He is spoiled, possessive and sees no shame in using the knowledge he has. That does not however excuse your treatment of him.”

“No it doesn’t,” Remiel murmured. “I’ll fix it,” She promised.

“Yes, you will,” Mycroft answered, “Consider this your warning Remiel. Pull a stunt like this again and you _will_ be going back to Heaven,”

“Yes Father,” She nodded.

“Good.” Mycroft nodded, “Tomorrow report to the Captain first thing. You’ll be working for him until we reach Hong Kong as reparation for the damages and the chaos you caused,” Remiel looked up, clearly biting back her first response to that. “Sherlock will be joining you, for what duties he is capable of.” He added and her shoulder’s sagged slightly. “Understood?”

“Yes sir,” Remiel murmured.

“Dismissed then,” Mycroft said and his angel departed. With a heavy sigh Mycroft briefly longed for the days he spent entirely alone, where his work was his only concern and while lives relied upon him it was not so personal. Then he remembered laughter and joy and experiments and knew he wouldn’t change it if he could (of course he _could_ ). He turned to the glass cabinet behind his desk and slipped out a decanter and glass, pouring himself a measure of whisky and pretended the alcohol affected him enough to get him to relax.

A few minutes later he stepped from his office into the cabin that was Sherlock’s nursery next door. Sherlock was sat in bed, staring glumly at the sheets. He didn’t look up when Mycroft entered, nor when Mycroft sat down on the end of his bed.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft said and the boy flinched, his gaze hardening but not raising from the bed. “So what story do you want tonight?” he asked and Sherlock scowled harder.

“Don’t want a stupid story,” He grumbled and Mycroft snorted, of course he didn’t.

“Alright then,” Mycroft said standing and taking a step towards the door, as if he were going to leave, only to stop when Sherlock let out a small frightened and upset sound. Mycroft paused and turned back at Sherlock who was finally looking at him.

“How about this then little brother,” Mycroft moved to one side of the cabin and picked up one of Sherlock’s favourite toys, a stuffed dog, and brought it over to him. “Why don’t you tell me why Remiel upsets you so much?” he handed the toy to the child who grabbed it and hugged it to his chest but didn’t answer. “Sherlock I can’t help if I don’t know what’s wrong,”

“You know,” Sherlock scowled, “You know _everything_ ,”

“Technically I suppose,” Mycroft agreed, “But I’d much rather hear it from you,” Sherlock hesitated for a long moment but then sagged.

“You said…” Sherlock started and then broke off sniffing; Mycroft reached out and ran his fingers through the child’s hair soothingly. “You said you didn’t have children, you didn’t _want_ children,” He accused and Mycroft sighed, remembering that conversation they’d had the day they met thirty years ago.

“Sherlock I never said I didn’t have children, I said you wouldn’t want to be one of them because I am not a good parent.” He met Sherlock’s watery gaze and smiled at him sadly. “I am glad you’re my brother, not my child. I didn’t have a brother before I met you, remember?”

“ _She_ doesn’t think you’re a bad parent,” Sherlock scowled.

“One success out of several thousand doesn’t make me a good parent Sherlock,” Mycroft answered and Sherlock blinked at him in surprise. “I left them Sherlock. I hurt them all very badly and then I abandoned them. Remiel simply followed me until I gave up trying to avoid her.” Mycroft explained. Sherlock looked back down at his sheets, hugging the dog to his chest and for a while the two of them just sat in silence. There was little point, Mycroft knew, in pressing Sherlock if he didn’t feel like talking. Sherlock was very young but he was also very clever and did not appreciate interruptions while he was thinking. Eventually he looked back up and met Mycroft’s eyes, his own silver eyes wide with uncertainty.

“I’m really your only brother?” Sherlock asked and Mycroft smiled.

“I promise Sherlock, you are my one and only brother,” he said, “Now. I believe it’s time for a story?” He asked and Sherlock smiled at him weakly.

***

Two weeks later as they docked in Hong Kong Sherlock and Remiel weren’t exactly close, the bickering didn’t really end even if the sabotage and pranks did, but they had bonded somewhat over Mycroft’s punishment. Likely Mycroft wouldn’t have to worry about them murdering one another even if they never grew to like one another.

Still there was something unsettling about the voyage, something that would not leave Mycroft alone no matter how much he tried to focus on other things.

_I’m really your only brother?_

He _was_ , Mycroft told his own brain firmly. He had no brother aside from Sherlock.

Yet that didn’t stop his promise from feeling like a lie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] Ianthe – meaning violet flower from Greek Mythology. Anthea is also a name from Greek mythology meaning flower. I figure she had a handful she rotates through.


	6. Friendship Part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After restarting this chapter from scratch three times I finally gave in a split it into two (maybe three) parts. There is a _lot_ of foreshadowing in this chapter because apparently my mind likes to invent plots where there is only supposed to be fluff.
> 
> **Chapter warnings** : This chapter is deals with the death of a child. It is painless and not graphic but please read with caution.

**China 1605**

_“I hate you, I hate you, I hate you!” The child screamed from where he fought and struggled and kicked in the arms of an angel. “I wish you died instead of him! It’s your fault! Your fault! I hate you!” He sobbed._

_“I know,” Mycroft sighed tired beyond emotion. Remiel dragged the screaming child away leaving Mycroft stood staring after them with a resigned expression._

_“Whatever the child says it wasn’t your fault,” A voice said from behind him and Mycroft turned to meet dark fathomless eyes._

_“Does it matter whose fault it was?” Mycroft asked, “I have lost my brother as surely as I’ve lost everyone else I’ve ever cared about,” The dark eyes didn’t reply immediately but then they didn’t have to. Mycroft knew what they said anyway._

***

It all began when Sherlock made a friend. After the disaster that was Sherlock’s introduction to Remiel Mycroft had started to attempt to socialise Sherlock, introducing him to other human children. Mycroft’s attempts could only be described as disasters, given that the best of the lot resulted in a small cult of five to eight year olds worshipping Sherlock as the god he was. Not that Mycroft would begrudge Sherlock his heritage but the power could easily go to Sherlock’s head. Mycroft decided to give it up as a bad job and wait until Sherlock was older and more able to understand that deconstructing human’s lives in front of them was liable to get him punched in the face. Then of course, just to be contrary, Sherlock made his own friend.

“This is Ning,[1]” Sherlock announced dragging a small human boy his own age to stand in front of Mycroft. “He’s my new friend. His family is taking us to the mountains to visit their ancestors[2]; we’ll back in a week,”

“Will you now?” Mycroft asked looked from Sherlock to the other boy, it was clear why the boy’s parents were taking him to the ancestral hall. He looked like a stiff breeze might be the end of him. “And at what point were you going to ask me for permission?”

“Wasn’t,” Sherlock answered smugly.

“He wasn’t even going tell you,” Ning said in resignation, as if already he knew Sherlock well enough to pass comment on Sherlock’s habit of disappearing. “I made him,” Mycroft’s estimation of the boy rose slightly. Already he was an improvement on the other children Sherlock had met recently if he was able to drag Sherlock into asking permission in a roundabout way. That Sherlock had told him probably deserved some kind of reward.

“Let me have a word with Ning’s parents but I see no issue with Sherlock going with you,” Mycroft said simply. Ning cheered while Sherlock gaped in surprise. Mycroft simply smiled.

An hour later Mycroft saw Sherlock, his new friend and new friend’s family off and wondered whether he would come back in one piece or not. He supposed it depended on whether or not Sherlock behaved or not, which in turn depended on how much he liked this new friend of his.

It was a quiet week without Sherlock underfoot constantly and Mycroft was viciously reminded of his life before he found the little god. He got a lot of work done, travelling hundreds of miles in a day with only a small amount of cheating, and even managed to get slightly ahead of himself. Yet it was also painfully quiet. Remiel of course was around fairly often, taking messages to and fro, dealing with arranging meeting and paperwork, but after she left in an evening to work on her own projects the house Mycroft was renting fell silent and still. It was uncomfortable and Mycroft realised he had gotten used to not being constantly alone. When Sherlock returned, flush with triumph and joy and friendship Mycroft was waiting for him, relieved beyond words.

“Do I want to know what sort of chaos you managed to get yourselves into?” Mycroft asked as two beaming and thrilled children ran up to him. Sherlock hugged his legs, still grinning while Ning looked a little embarrassed.

“We met a Wǎngliǎng-guǐ![3]” Sherlock said in delight and Mycroft resisted urge to pinch his nose, of course they did.

“It was very nice,” Ning offered, “it showed us how to play some new games and carried me back when I got tired,”

“Well so long as it was nice,” Mycroft said trying and probably failing to keep the sarcasm out of his voice.

Mycroft hadn’t planned on spending more than a few weeks in this town before moving north and east to the coast but with Sherlock’s new friend he decided to stay at least through summer. Remiel went on ahead leaving Mycroft to handle the two exuberant boys. Ning’s parents were farmers with five other children so didn’t have much time to spare to watch the two, leaving both to Mycroft’s watchful eye. Never in all the centuries since he left Heaven did he get less work done than that summer but equally never had he had more fun.

“Mycroft! Mycroft! Come and see!” the call echoed around the house regularly. After the first half dozen times he abandoned his work Mycroft gave up pretending that it was to make sure to children weren’t blowing anything up. Sherlock had a knack for getting in places he really shouldn’t that Mycroft was well used to but Ning had a talent for finding all sorts of nests and dens for creatures both mundane and supernatural. Inevitably they called for Mycroft to identify creatures they didn’t recognise which almost always turned into a lesson on the natural environment. Mycroft may not have gotten much work done but Sherlock learned more about the natural world that summer than he would until Charles Darwin started his research.

“Sir I know they’re adorable but we’re getting behind,” Remiel said frowning during one visit which had already been delayed because Sherlock and Ning had found a dragon’s den. Mycroft had been forced to extract a promise from both boys that they wouldn’t return. Sherlock might not follow it but Ning probably would. Mycroft was very fond of Ning, or at least very fond of Ning’s common sense which was put to good use in reigning in some of Sherlock’s wilder ideas (or rather encouraged some of the ridiculous but marginally safer ideas which was possibly the best result Mycroft could hope for).

“My dear look at that child and tell me I’m wrong to give him the best summer possible,” Mycroft said pointing at Ning. Remiel looked and her expression creased tightly, she couldn’t deny what she saw. “The work will always be there but Sherlock’s friend won’t be. Let him have this summer,”

“Yes sir,” Remiel agreed reluctantly.

As summer started to fade and the weather cooled the boys went on fewer adventures, instead they came begging to Mycroft for stories. He obliged with tales from every mythos, every human era and the boys drank it in. Ning particularly as he hadn’t travelled more than a few day’s travel from his home and so drank in the stories of far off places eagerly. Mycroft would never admit that the enthralled audience at once both lightened his heart and filled it with dread. 

“Mycroft when we leave can Ning come with us?” Sherlock asked one evening and Mycroft glanced across to the boy who was curled up under a fleece blanket of Sherlock’s and still shivering despite the warm air.

“Not this time Sherlock, he’s too young.” Mycroft answered, “If he was older…” he trailed off as Ning started to cough. He stepped over and placed his hand on the child back rubbing gently and infusing just a tiny spark of power to ease the coughs and reduce the pain.

“Maybe we can stay a few years until he’s old enough to come?” Sherlock asked innocently.

“We’ll stay until he no longer needs us,” Mycroft promised and Sherlock beamed in delight. Clearly believing that they would be staying for a long time. Mycroft didn’t have the heart to correct him.

“Mycroft?” Ning asked that same night, after Sherlock had fallen asleep.

“Yes Ning?” Mycroft asked.

“You’ll look after him won’t you? When I’m gone I mean?” Ning asked and Mycroft smiled as reassuringly as he could even if he didn’t really feel very reassuring.

“Of course,” Mycroft promised, “Sherlock is my brother, I’ll always look after him,” He’d look after Sherlock for as long as Sherlock would let him.

“Good,” Ning said, exhausted.

“Rest young one, you need your strength,” Mycroft suggested. Ning didn’t reply, already half asleep.

That night Mycroft sent out a letter, the following day Ning collapsed during one of the boys’ games. Mycroft sent and paid for a doctor but there was little point. The doctor could only tell them what the adults and Ning’s siblings already knew. Only Sherlock was surprised by his prognosis.

“But… you’ll heal him, won’t you?” Sherlock asked looking at Mycroft with wide trusting eyes, once Ning’s parents had moved away to speak to the doctor. Mycroft looked at his little brother and was tempted to lie. He remembered the dead kittens, years ago now and the accident that had caused their deaths all but forgotten by Sherlock, and knew he couldn’t.

“No Sherlock,” Mycroft answered and Sherlock frowned.

“But… you said. You promised. We’ll stay here until he’s old enough to come with us,” Sherlock said and Mycroft shook his head.

“I said we would stay until he no longer needs us,” He said and watched, resigned, as understanding flooded Sherlock’s expression.

“You knew, you _knew_ this would happen,” He whispered in horror.

“I know everything Sherlock,” Mycroft answered, “Omniscient, remember?”

“You knew and you didn’t heal him? You _won’t_ heal him?” Sherlock demanded anger sparking in his brilliant silver eyes.

“No,” Mycroft answered moving to kneel by his little brother, “Sherlock listen it’s not as simple as just healing him…” He started to explain but Sherlock was not in the mood to listen.

“No! No!” He screamed, “It _is_ simple! You heal him and then he comes with us! He’s my _friend!_ ”

“Everything dies eventually Sherlock,” Mycroft said but Sherlock did not listen.

“Get out! _Get out! Getout!_ ” He screamed and screamed until Ning’s parents hurried back over and pulled him away from his brother. A single look from the humans and Mycroft conceded, Sherlock would not listen right now, would not understand why Mycroft would not heal Ning. Mycroft turned and left, he had work to do anyway. He didn’t let the sudden ache he felt in his heart even flicker onto his face and when he shut the door to his office he made sure that no one could open it, not even Remiel.

After Ning’s collapse it was only a matter of time. Mycroft was forbidden from Ning’s sick room, by order of Sherlock, unless he was there to heal the boy. That was fine, Mycroft told himself, it was better that he remove himself from the temptation anyway. He knew he had a rather unfortunate blind spot as far as Sherlock was concerned, he couldn’t guarantee that he wouldn’t give into the pleading. Ning was just a child, Mycroft acknowledged, his death would be unfair and tragic and a waste but if Sherlock thought Mycroft hadn’t already checked what the consequences of healing Ning would be the moment they met then he was sorely mistaken. Mycroft had checked, he had rechecked _twice_ and then had given the information to Remiel and compared their conclusions. For some reason Fate demanded that Ning die now and if Mycroft knew why… well he wasn’t going to tell anyone that. All he could do was take away Ning’s pain, ensure that his passing was painless and comfortable.

“Aren’t you meant to be in there?” He asked the figure who stood outside the sick room when the appointed day came.

“I would have thought I should be saying that to _you_ ,” the figure replied turning to study Mycroft with dark, slightly sunken eyes. “You don’t look well YHWH; I thought it was the child who was sick,”

“It’s been a long summer,” Mycroft replied neutrally, a thin, tired smile tugging at his lips. “To what do I owe the honour of this personal visit?” he asked.

“This,” A letter was pulled out of the long black robes and waved in Mycroft’s direction, “You don’t often call asking for personal favours,”

“And that’s enough to visit personally is it?” Mycroft enquired, “I should do so more often then, if only to see that irritated expression you use when dealing with humans,” Whatever reply that statement might have provoked was cut off by a sudden change in the atmosphere. Two sets of eyes turned to the door of the sick room. The time had come.

“The world never halts, even for us,” Mycroft’s visitor sighed, “To work then,” He said and from beside him a second figure appeared. He inclined his pale head and the pretty woman stepped through into the room without opening the door. Moments later she returned, the soul of young Ning at her side, holding onto her hand. At the sight of the two beings Ning’s eyes widened.

“What _are_ you?” he asked and Mycroft smiled wanly.

“I’m Sherlock’s brother,” He answered and Ning looked over at the other man.

“I know you,” The child whispered.

“I’ve been with you for a while little one, waiting for you,” Was the reply.

“You’re Death, aren’t you?” Ning asked and Death nodded.

“I am,” He said kneeling by the child and placing a reassuring hand on his shoulder, “Now little one it’s time. Tessa is going to take you onwards,” Death’s voice was gentle, and kind. Humans would be surprised to know that he always was with children. Whatever the cause of their death he himself was kind.

“Yes,” Ning said looking up at Tessa who was smiling at him warmly and then at Mycroft, “You promised,” he said and Mycroft nodded.

“I’ll look after him for you,” Mycroft promised a second time, “Until you meet again,”

“Bye Mycroft,” Ning said and then he was gone, Tessa with him.

“Tessa is one of my best,” Death informed Mycroft, “She’ll look after him, for as long as he is in her company,”

“I wouldn’t doubt you old friend,” Mycroft replied even as the door to the sick room was thrown open. A small figure charged Mycroft, all flying fists and tears of grief and hurt and anger.

“It’s your fault! _It’s your fault!_ ” Sherlock screamed even as Remiel left the sick room behind him, grabbing him around the waist and hauling him away from Mycroft. “I hate you, I hate you, I hate you!” Sherlock screamed and struggled in Remiel’s arms. “I wish you died instead of him! It’s your fault! _Your fault! I hate you!_ ” He sobbed.

“I know,” Mycroft sighed tired beyond emotion. Remiel dragged Sherlock away even as Mycroft watched.

“Whatever the child says it wasn’t your fault,” Death said and Mycroft turned back to face him.

“Does it matter whose fault it was?” Mycroft asked, “I have lost my brother as surely as I’ve lost everyone else I’ve ever cared about,” Death didn’t reply immediately but then he didn’t have to. Mycroft already knew what he would say to that. “I should have just healed the child,”

“And taught Sherlock that he is entitled to everything he asks for, even resurrection,” Death replied, “To say nothing of Fate’s opinion on the matter. You know what the consequences would have been,”

“Consequences that will not come into play for more than four hundred years,” Mycroft scoffed shaking his head. “That does not help me now when I have a grieving child to care for who blames me for his friend’s death,”

“I have not seen you so ridiculously dramatic in centuries YHWH,” Death scoffed, “This is why you should know better than to get attached to the amoeba, you inevitably end up morose and histrionic. Now are you going to offer me a game of chess or shall I just be on my way?” he asked and Mycroft let out a low humourless chuckle.

“Would you care to play chess old friend?” he asked and Death smirked at him.

“Don’t be ridiculous, as if I have the time to spare,” he answered flippantly. Mycroft glanced towards the sick room where Ning’s family was grieving and then down the hall where Sherlock had vanished with Remiel.

“I should check on Sherlock,” he said and then turned back to Death, “My friend, thank you for coming,”

“I’m going to hold you to that chess match YHWH,” Death said, his flippant expression fading into something more serious.

“Mycroft,” Mycroft corrected and Death stared at him for a long moment.

“Mycroft then,” He bowed his head. There was a look in Death’s eyes that promised a long conversation about that small detail at some point. Between one blink and the next Death was gone and Mycroft was left stood alone outside the former sick room.

A weight settled somewhere just behind Mycroft’s heart, heavy and aching. Exhaustion swept through him and he let his eyes slide close. His wrists throbbed.

“Damn,”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am not happy with my research into Chinese names/mythology/culture. I had issues trying to find reliable resources on the internet and mostly had to rely on Wikipedia which I try to avoid as much as possible. If any of the below is incorrect please inform me. Or if you have good resources let me know because I have at least one more chapter to write (possibly two) based in China.  
> [1] Ning – from the Chinese 宁 which means ‘peaceful, tranquil’ – as close to ‘gracious’ as I could get for Reasons.  
> [2] Visiting the ancestors – a lot of Chinese mythology, particularly the traditional stuff outside Taoism & Buddhism, is about continuing to treat family well even beyond death. Ancestors were remembered and given offerings to entreat them to help the present day family. A lot of people would have ancestral halls with ancestral tablets to which the spirits of said ancestors would attach themselves. Ning’s family is going to ask the ancestors to help strengthen Ning.  
> [3] Wǎngliǎng-guǐ – From the Chinese 魍魉鬼. A goblin spirit that, apparently, was once a person corrupted by a desire to find insight in life and is now made of one of the three essential energies (Jing) within rocks and trees. Given that Sherlock is the god of Science and loves learning things I decided a spirit that was equally obsessed with understanding life might get along with him. However most spirits in Chinese mythology are hostile, because they have not been properly put to rest and so the kids were probably fairly lucky to come out unscathed.


	7. Friendship Part 2

“Sherlock?”

Nothing. Mycroft rapped on the frame of the door twice and called again. “Sherlock?”

Still nothing.

Mycroft closed his eyes, reaching out silently with senses that no one else had. He let his mind wrap around the awareness of Sherlock curled up in his bed, tears tracking down his young face even in his sleep. With a quiet sigh Mycroft slid the door open and stepped inside, his footsteps silent so as to not disturb the sleeping child.

“What am I supposed to do with you?” Mycroft asked the child even though he knew he wouldn’t get an answer. Instead he bent down to gently unfurl Sherlock’s body and cover him more properly with the covers. Once he had Sherlock straightened out he brushed the tears from the boys’ cheeks, feeling the heat radiating from them

It had been two months since Ning died. Two months of tantrums and shouting and fury. Two months of Sherlock crying himself to sleep most nights and refusing to accept any sort of comfort from Mycroft. They had moved on, staying to see Ning laid to rest before packing up and leaving everything behind. A clean break or so Mycroft had intended.

Except he quickly realised that Sherlock’s migraines had returned with a vengeance. Whatever good fortune had kept Sherlock healthy and strong over the summer was gone, his mind nearly melting under the weight of too much knowledge. Sherlock was grieving and he was suffering and he would not let Mycroft help him. So Mycroft was reduced to this, to letting his little brother pass out from tears or pain and then coming in to do what he could to ease the pain.

The spark of metaphysical energy sank into Sherlock’s temple and the lines on the young face smoothed out. Mycroft leant back, standing over Sherlock trying to decide what to do.

“Sir?” Remiel’s murmured voice cut through his thoughts and he turned to look at her. She was watching the sight with a neutral expression.

“Do you need something?” Mycroft asked and Remiel shook her head.

“I… you were right,” She said quietly, “I need to move on. There’s a situation developing in Japan and…” She broke off.

Remiel had stayed far longer than she had intended to. She claimed it was because they did not usually spend thirty years apart and she had a lot to catch up on but Mycroft knew she was staying for his sake. Sherlock did not like Remiel but he would at least listen to her, unlike Mycroft.

“I’ll be fine,” Mycroft assured her crossing the room and placing his hands on her shoulders. “Please at least try to remember I am the parent in this relationship. It is, technically, my job to look after you not the other way around,”

“You know,” Remiel replied quietly, “That I can count on one hand the number of times you’ve admitted that in the last ten centuries but in the last few months you’ve mentioned it more than half a dozen times,” Mycroft didn’t say anything, there wasn’t really anything that needed to be said. “Just… please be careful?” She asked looking up at him with eyes that understood too much.

“I always am,” Mycroft smiled at her, or tried to, judging from her expression he wasn’t that successful. “Enjoy Japan. Treat yourself to a day at an onsen,”

“I will,” Remiel said and stretched up on tiptoes to press a kiss to his cheek. Mycroft blinked at her in surprise but she was walking away before he thought to comment on the gesture. He let her go, watching until she turned the corner and he knew she wasn’t going to look back. Then he reached for his sleeves, tugging them down more fully over his wrists, hiding the flash of white.

Turning away from where Remiel had disappeared he took the chance to watch Sherlock for another moment before sliding the door shut and making his slow way back to his office. He had work to do.

He always had work to do.

***

“ _NO!_ ” Sherlock half-screamed, half-sobbed his fists pounding against Mycroft’s arm as he dragged the child away from the lake. “Let me go!”

“And what, little brother, is stopping you from jumping into that lake and drowning?” Mycroft asked quietly.

“I’m a _god_ , I’m _immortal_. I won’t drown,” Sherlock snapped back snidely. Then he bit Mycroft’s forearm. Mycroft hissed and nearly dropped the squirming child.

“ _Sherlock!_ ” Mycroft snapped and promptly gave up trying to this the old fashioned way. He blinked and they were suddenly back at the house they were renting. Once they were away from the lake Mycroft dropped Sherlock to the floor which was a mistake because Sherlock took off the moment he was free, making for the door. Mycroft glared quietly and the door slammed shut.

“Let me out!” Sherlock shouted.

“Not until you calm down,” Mycroft replied as reasonably as he could. Sherlock screeched and kicked at the door, trying to get it to open but it refused. Mycroft left him to it, more than aware that Sherlock wasn’t going to listen to him in his state. Instead he moved across the room to where his desk was set up for work and sunk into the chair. He stared for a long moment at the piles of paperwork that sat waiting for him to review and authorise, trying desperately to work up the motivation to actually do any of it.

The banging and crashing at the door was very distracting. He reached for the nearest piece of paperwork anyway.

Eventually the crashes died down, the screams replaced by quiet sobs as Sherlock wore himself out. Sighing quietly Mycroft set the paperwork down and turned around. Sherlock was sat at the foot of the door, curled up into a ball, cradling his hands which were bleeding and full of splinters from the wood of the door. It seemed he had actually managed to damage the wood. If Sherlock was a little older he might have broken it completely and gotten out.

Mycroft slipped from his chair and walked across the room to the door. He blinked at it, watching the wood repair itself before kneeling down beside Sherlock.

“Let me see your hands,” he said and then reached out for them before Sherlock could do more than mutter a complaint. Gently, carefully Mycroft plucked the worst of the splinters out of Sherlock’s hands before covering them with his own. He rubbed the palms with his thumb, letting a drop of power move between them, healing as it went.

“I know you’re mad at me but please Sherlock, I hate seeing you hurt yourself like this,” Mycroft murmured as the tiny hiccupping sobs Sherlock had been letting out came to a halt.

“Wouldn’t drown,” Sherlock mumbled.

“Maybe not,” Mycroft answered, “But that doesn’t mean you wouldn’t get hurt. Besides did I not say this morning you could go down to the lake with me this afternoon once I finished work? Why did you go without someone to make sure you were safe when I said I would take you?”

“Don’t want _you_ ,” Sherlock replied mulishly. “’Sides’ I’m still immortal,” The word was sneered, “You’ll jus’ heal me anyway,”

Mycroft almost wished that one of the lessons Sherlock had taken from Ning’s death hadn’t been the awareness of his own near immortality. Sherlock didn’t want to die, Mycroft knew, but he had become worryingly reckless with his life. It was a terrifying habit for someone who looked, essentially, like a five year old.

“Maybe I shouldn’t,” Mycroft said, “If it teaches you to be more careful,” Sherlock didn’t say anything to that, just tugged his hands out of Mycroft’s, blood gone and no sign of a splinter anywhere.

“I’m fine you can go now,” Sherlock said glaring at the desk where Mycroft had been working.

“If you insist,” Mycroft said standing, “No experiments for two days,”

“What? Why?” Sherlock looked up at him startled.

“For sneaking out to the lake when I told you not to,” Mycroft answered, turning his back on the child and returning to work. He didn’t hear anything else from Sherlock for over an hour; when he turned back he found that Sherlock had fallen asleep by the door, exhausted by his tantrum. Myroft closed his eyes for a long moment before abandoning his work again. He could send Sherlock to bed with a thought, he probably should, but instead he knelt down yet again and carefully lifted the boy into his arms to carry him through to his nursery.

***

“Sir I’m sorry,” The nurse sobbed, her face crinkled up in grief and fear and worry. “I swear I looked away for only a moment and when I looked back…”

“Did you not lock the door?” Mycroft demanded, already fighting his fear and worry and anger. “I told you he’s taken to running away. You should have locked the door!”

“It was locked!” The nurse protested, voice croaking, “I swear sir, it was locked. I had the key around my neck after he tried to steal it from my pocket!” She tugged on the string around her neck and sure enough there was the door key.

“Then how did he get out?” Mycroft snarled even though he could already guess. Sherlock had probably broken the lock, it wasn’t meant to hold up to a young god’s strength.

“I’m sorry,” The nurse sobbed shaking her head, clearly with no idea how she had managed to lose her charge from a locked room.

“Get out,” Mycroft ordered and the woman fled.

“I take it this is a bad time?” A new voice intruded and Mycroft whirled on the spot to see one of the last people he was expecting leaning against the door of his office.

“Death,” he said blinking in confusion. “I just saw you three months ago. You’re here again already?” For a brief horrifying second Mycroft imagined that Death was there for a reason, a reason that might involve the missing child. Then reason and common sense kicked in and Mycroft knew that wasn’t it. Sherlock was, currently, safe though that didn’t mean he was going to stay that way.

“You owe me a chess match,” Death answered easily and apparently carelessly.

“I’m a little busy right now in case you hadn’t noticed,” Mycroft snapped, harsher than perhaps Death deserved but then Death didn’t take offence, he knew Mycroft too well.

“We are always busy Mycroft,” Death answered. “Come and play chess with me,”

“Sherlock is _missing_ ,” Mycroft snarled because if he didn’t then he might scream and that would not end well for anyone.

“He is perfectly safe for the moment and you will know the instant it changes,” Death countered, “he will come back when he gets bored, or hungry or cold. Chasing after him does nothing but teach him you will follow,”

“He’s five,” Mycroft argued but he could already feel the tension in his shoulders melting as exhaustion swept through him. Death stepped forward, once, twice until he was stood in Mycroft’s personal space. He reached out and very carefully placed two fingers against Mycroft’s wrist.

“You are exhausted and stressed,” Death said calmly. “You will be no good for him or anyone else if you keep going like this. That boy you have adopted is a god, he’s hardy and durable. He is also grieving. Give him a little space Mycroft. He will come back,” The way Death spoke, dispassionately, would have fooled any other being into thinking he didn’t have any feelings one way or another; except for the fact that Death had cut through all Mycroft’s masks and bluster, digging his way to the very heart of the issue.

“How do you know?” Mycroft asked and Death looked at him sceptically.

“How do you _not_?” Death returned. It was a fair observation given Mycroft’s omniscience, except for one small fact.

“I was wrong last time,” He murmured.

“No,” Death shook his head just once, “No, last time you lied to yourself. You told yourself that Lucifer would calm down that he would come to understand. That was denial, this is stupidity. The boy will come back.” Death moved, instead of just touching Mycroft he encircled Mycroft’s wrist with his hand and tugged him towards Mycroft’s desk.

The deliberate touching was what made Mycroft cooperate. Death did not touch people, not even Mycroft, unless they were about to die. Not without very good reason. He could prevent himself from exerting his powers but generally doing so was far too much effort. Two fingers from his free hand pressed against Mycroft’s shoulder, pushing him back and down into his chair. As soon as Mycroft sat Death was moving again, recovering the chess board that Mycroft carried with him but very rarely used and setting it out on the desk. Once it was done Death dropped into a spare chair and turned his dark eyes on Mycroft.

“How long have we known one another?” Death asked.

“Far too long,” Mycroft replied.

“Then trust me,” Death said and Mycroft met those dark eyes evenly. Trust Death? Well if there was anyone trustworthy in all of Creation it was Death, he was after all the one constant of the universe.

Mycroft reached out and moved a pawn. In the back of his mind he felt Sherlock start to wonder where Mycroft was. Still safe, just confused.

 

 

“That favour you asked of me,” Death commented as Mycroft took one of his rooks.

“What about it?” Mycroft asked.

“Four centuries is a long time, how certain are you of this path?” Death enquired.

“I’ve rarely been more certain,” Mycroft answered. “Is it not a little irrelevant now though, has the whole thing not been dealt with?”

“Being willing to do a personal favour for you and doing the right thing to do are not, necessarily, the same,” Death pointed out.

“When have they not been?” Mycroft enquired.

“Thus far? Never, but that does not mean it will never happen,” Death said. “Your move,” he added after taking Mycroft’s queen.

Sherlock was bored and wet and miserable.

 

 

“Why Mycroft?” Death asked. Their first chess match ended in a stale-mate. This one appeared to be going the same way.

“Why not?” Mycroft returned.

“It’s not a name that means anything in the human languages I’m familiar with,” That of course was all of them, language was not a barrier to Death. “Where did you pick it out?”

“I didn’t,” Mycroft answered and Death stilled.

“Is that wise?” Death enquired. “Allowing a pagan to name you. Names are important,”

“That was why I allowed him to name me,” Mycroft replied, “he doesn’t understand yet but he will,”

“He hates you,” Death pointed out, not unreasonably.

“That doesn’t change things,” Mycroft replied.

Sherlock turned his waterlogged steps back towards the house, fed-up and miserable. Mycroft felt the last bit of tension in him ease from his shoulders.

 

 

“I’ve brought your boy a gift,” Death said and Mycroft blinked at him, taking his eyes off the bishop that Death had just used to check his King.

“A… gift?” he frowned. “Why?”

“Why not?” Death countered, “He’s my oldest friend’s younger brother can I not buy him a gift without ulterior motives?”

“Not when said oldest friend knows you far better than is good for him,” Mycroft countered. “What kind of gift?”

“The good kind,” Death replied and Mycroft narrowed his eyes, realising in minutes what, exactly, constituted as a gift from Death.

“No,” Mycroft said flatly.

“Oh come now,” Death smirked moving his Queen. “It’s what every boy wants, is it not?”

“Even if I refuse you aren’t going to listen to me are you?” Mycroft asked, heart sinking.

“What else are friends for?” Death asked, “Checkmate,”

Mycroft looked at the chessboard and sighed. He reached up and knocked his King down. Every time, he mused. Rounds and rounds of stale mates but Death always won in the end. Probably that was meant to be a metaphor for Creation but Mycroft dismissed the thought. Instead he looked up to the door just as a very small hand knocked twice on the wood.

Sherlock was back. Mycroft refused to admit to the relief that washed through him.

 

 

“Come in Sherlock,” he called out and the door slid open to admit one very small and very wet pagan god. “Back from your adventure already?” Mycroft enquired forcing his voice to remain level.

“You didn’t come for me,” Sherlock sounded utterly miserable.

“You were safe enough,” Mycroft shrugged, carelessly, “And I had a guest,” He indicated Death who was watching Sherlock with quiet fascination. Sherlock looked up then, still miserable, and let his eyes focus on Death. The long black robes face and hands that were thin and pale and the slightly sunken dark eyes that saw everything combined to make a somewhat intimidating picture and Mycroft could see that it was having an effect on Sherlock. There was quietness, stillness around Death that Sherlock could no doubt feel.

“Who are you?” Sherlock asked shivering as if cold. The room was warm and Sherlock barely noticed the water that was still dripping from his clothes.

“I am your brother’s oldest friend,” Death answered. “I thought perhaps it was time we met. I think young Sherlock that you and I need to have a conversation. You have questions for me that Mycroft cannot or will not answer,”

“Who are you?” Sherlock repeated, “You aren’t like us,”

“No one is like me,” Death replied easily standing from his seat and sweeping forward to kneel down beside the child. “Sherlock I am Death,”

“Death?” Sherlock glanced at Mycroft, eyes widening in fear. Mycroft sent a reassuring smile at Sherlock but knew it would do no good. Everyone feared Death at first. Hopefully Sherlock would be one of those that came to understand that there was nothing about him that was worthy of fear.

“Yes,” Death said simply.

“You’re… you’re a personification,” Sherlock whispered.

“No,” Death answered, “Not quite. As Mycroft collects the energies of omniscience to himself so I gather the thoughts and considerations of Death to myself. However I existed long before humanity. I just am,”

“You took Ning,” The understanding struck Sherlock quickly, “You took my friend,”

“I take everyone’s friends eventually,” Death replied. “That’s the nature of life. All lives end, all hearts are broken,”

“But why?” Sherlock wanted to know.

“Sherlock listen to me,” Death said and Mycroft watched, heart stopping briefly, as his friend reached out and took Sherlock by the chin, dark eyes boring into the child’s face. “There is a balance in this world, one that has always existed and _must_ always exist. Life and Death. Natural and Supernatural. Light and Dark.” Mycroft flinched at the reminder but stayed silent. Sherlock needed to hear this and he would not listen to Mycroft. “One of the most delicate balances, one that entangles even Mycroft and I, is Fate and Freedom.”

“What does that mean?” Sherlock asked, his voice trembling.

“We all have a Fate Sherlock. Every single one of us. You and Mycroft and I… we cannot escape it. How it comes about, how it unfolds, what happens after that… that is Freedom. We choose how our Fates come about; we choose what we make of it. Fate is a destination; Freedom is the path we choose to walk towards it.” Death explained. “Sometimes it is not so easy. The choices of other people can turn us from the path we wish to walk, force us to walk another,”

“What does this have to do with Ning?” Sherlock demanded.

“It was Ning’s Fate to die Sherlock,” Death told him. “Nothing could change that. If Mycroft had saved him then your friend would have spent the rest of his life suffering and in pain. Is that what you would have wanted for him?”

“No,” Sherlock tugged his head away from Death, flinching at the thought of Ning suffering the way he hadn’t during his last few months. Yet it wasn’t enough to stop the child from glaring at Mycroft, still angry, still hurt. “It’s his fault,”

“Yes it is,” Death accepted, “Mycroft chose not to act to save Ning’s life when he could. That makes it his responsibility. That does not mean he was not right to do so,”

“Why didn’t he heal my friend?” Sherlock’s eyes glistened with anger and with pain. The tears threatened.

“Because you are his little brother Sherlock,” Death replied, “And he loves you enough to accept your hatred if it saves you from pain,”

“I hate him,” The tears began to escape.

“I know,” Death said.

The dam burst. Sherlock sobbed just once and then threw himself forward. Tiny arms wrapped around Death’s neck as a small frame crashed into his chest. Dark eyes widened in surprise. Death lifted his arms up to return the embrace even as he tilted his head sideways, just slightly. Enough that he could see Mycroft’s no doubt equally surprised expression.

“Well then,” Death blinked slowly absorbing what had just happened.

“Well indeed,” Mycroft murmured as Sherlock sobbed out his grief. For the first time since Ning died Sherlock’s tears were healing ones. It would take time for the child to come to grips with what happened, time for even a young genius to fully comprehend what Death had said. It was, however, a start.

 

 

“A puppy,” Mycroft sighed as he stared down at the two sleeping bodies that lay entangled on Sherlock’s bed. “You got him a _puppy_ ,”

An Irish Red Setter to be precise. Despite the fact that the breed wouldn’t, technically, be a breed for a good while yet. Not to mention the fact that this particular Setter was, apparently, almost as immortal as Sherlock. Death had produced the puppy from somewhere shortly after Sherlock’s tears had run out. The boy had been too exhausted to celebrate properly but Mycroft had watched carefully as Sherlock had realised that the dog was _his_. A light came to those silver eyes that had been missing the last few months. A tiny smile had tugged at his lips. Sherlock had stared at the dog in amazement.

“I like dogs;” Death said simply, “Having a semi-permanent companion will do Sherlock good,”

A dog would not replace Ning, but it was clear Sherlock had fallen in love the moment he laid eyes on the puppy.

“Please don’t tell me the semi-immortal puppy you just gifted my little brother is a Grim,” Mycroft said dryly. Not that it was, or that Mycroft would take the dog away from Sherlock if it had been. Still it was his job to complain, it was how their friendship worked most of the time.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Death scoffed. “It’s barely half-Grim if that. I’m not giving your latest brat one of my ghost hounds,”

“What do you mean latest brat?” Mycroft asked.

“You think I could have known you for this long and not recognise your usual habits? Please Mycroft; what sort of unobservant moron do you take me for?” Death enquired.

“Well I wasn’t going to say anything but…” Mycroft quipped only to be forced into dodging a hit from the snath of his scythe. “Oi,” He complained but Death merely smirked.

“You deserve it,” Death informed him, “You should take better care of yourself Mycroft,”

“I’m too busy for that,” Mycroft dismissed straightening his cuffs once more.

“We’re always too busy,” Death agreed before reaching into his pocket and drawing out a pocket watch. Mycroft made a small noise of irritation. _Really?_ Well it’s not as if he could prevent Death from flouting tradition but if he was going to use things that hadn’t been invented yet he could at least be subtle about it.

“Speaking of being busy, I have places to be,” Death informed him, snapping the watch shut and turning away from the bed. “I’m sure I’ll see you again in due course. Best of luck with your charge Mycroft,” A slight softening of Death’s features was the only hint that Death hadn’t lumped Sherlock in with the rest of Mycroft’s so-called ‘brats’.

“If that dog causes problems I am going to complain to you. A lot. Fair warning,” Mycroft informed him.

“Now really Mycroft. The dog’s name is Redbeard,” Death informed him, “Sherlock said so before he fell asleep. You could at least pretend you’re thankful for my frankly brilliant gift,”

“Why am I friends with you?” Mycroft asked shaking his head in despair.

“No one else can put up with you,” Death replied. Between one blink and the next he vanished as if he had never been there. Mycroft let his eyes fall down on Sherlock and the newly dubbed Redbeard.

“Sleep well little brother,” He murmured before turning and slipping from the room. He had work to do and now it seemed that Sherlock was starting to turn around he really had to take care of it. He’d put too many things off as it was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Snath - The wooden shaft of a scythe
> 
> Not entirely happy with this chapter, but I figured it wasn't getting any better. There may be a slight delay on the next chapter as I've just discovered that Redbeard was, probably, a 15th century pirate which means rewriting the plot of the next couple of chapters to account for it.


	8. Interlude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please don't all faint in shock. I am not actually dead. Between my PhD finishing and a small, temporary head-first dive into the Star Wars: Clone Wars fandom I have crawled my way back out and finished the next chapter of this story. As celebration of that and the fact that I am now a Doctor of Geology (ahhhhh!) I am posting it. Hurrah!
> 
> Thank you everyone for sticking with this story despite the long hiatus. I promise not to leave it so long again. Everyone who is also on tumblr I will be back soon I promise! I am planning on binge watching the last five or so episodes of Season 11 next week and then I shall return.
> 
> This Chapter: More fallout from Ning's death, more Death and Sherlock bonding and a glimpse from Sherlock's point of view.

Hatred, true hatred is exhausting.

It thrives on anger, on pain and grief and fear and any one of those emotions can be tiring on their own let alone all of them together. To persist in hatred is to persist in an emotional drain that will not ever ease. There are ways around it, not engaging in the object of ones hatred allows for it to take a back seat. To simmer in the back of the mind until it’s needed, fuelled by memory but not taking up precious emotional reserves. More commonly intense hatred fades with time; passion leaks leaving behind dislike and apathy. Quieter emotions, easier in many ways and far less exhausting.

Sherlock was not an exception to this.

He was a scientist, he was logical and analytical. He may look like a child, act like a child but he was not, strictly speaking, actually a child. He was a god. He was several centuries old. He knew that hatred was not sustainable in the long term. Ultimately all hatred was going to achieve was hurting him. It wasn’t as if the object of his hatred seemed particularly bothered by his passionate declarations. 

He would like to make it clear however, a disinclination to waste his energy on hatred did not mean he was going to forgive Mycroft.

He wouldn’t.

Not ever.

Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut; fighting against yet more tears, and wrapped his arms around the warm furry body that lay panting in his arms. A solid tail whacked against his back, a steady constant beat that told Sherlock he was not alone. Ning was gone but he still had a friend. He would not let Mycroft take this one away from him.

“He can’t take you Redbeard, he can’t,” Sherlock whispered. A wet nose pressed against his chin, followed by a warm, wet tongue as Redbeard licked his cheek. Sherlock knew quite a few languages but he didn’t know how to speak dog. That didn’t matter though because the puppy was more than capable of making his feelings understood by his new master.

“I love you too,” Sherlock murmured and then focused on the knot of grief and hatred in his chest. Hatred was exhausting and he didn’t have the option of ignoring Mycroft. Not when he had nowhere else to go. Sherlock just wished that it was as easy as acknowledging that to remove the feeling.

***

Hatred was painful.

It was a sharp stabbing pain to the heart whenever Sherlock looked at Mycroft and saw him completely unaffected by Sherlock’s shouted accusations. How dare he? How dare he stand there and do nothing? Just watch with emotionless eyes and emotionless expressions, or turn away and carry on working, ignoring him? It wasn’t right, it wasn’t fair! Sherlock was the one who lost his friend! Why did he have to be the one to suffer, to walk around feeling as though he had a blade through his heart, while the one that killed Ning went free?

_“You don’t even care!”_ Sherlock screamed at him. Trying everything, _anything_ to get rid of that blank expression, to show some hint of remorse. At his side Redbeard barked and growled – his defender in all things. The pain doubled as Mycroft’s eyes settled on the dog and Sherlock thought, _‘no, not him too’_.

“Please control your dog Sherlock,” Mycroft said, not a hint of any real emotion on his face.

“Why?” Sherlock sneered, “Because if I don’t you’ll take him away the way you took Ning away?” He demanded and Mycroft sighed but shook his head.

“No,” Mycroft replied, “Because if you don’t you’ll be banned from experiments until you can.” He turned and walked away, ignoring Sherlock completely. Redbeard subsided, whining quietly, sharing in Sherlock’s pain.

“Death was lying,” Sherlock told his friend, “He doesn’t care, he _doesn’t_. If he cared; if he loved me then he would show it.” Redbeard cocked his head to one side, studying Sherlock intently. “Don’t look at me like that. He _would_. That’s what people do. When people they care about hate them then they get upset. I’ve seen it. I always see it,” He ignored the fact that Mycroft was the one that taught him to see that. He ignored the fact that Mycroft was, quite obviously, very different to ‘people’ and that his reaction to any stimulus was different to others.

The evidence was there, or rather the lack of evidence. Mycroft didn’t care.

Sherlock hated him and Mycroft didn’t care.

Sherlock knelt down and hugged the puppy. As if he could feed the dog all his pain and hatred. Redbeard nudged at him with his wet nose, whining in sympathy.

***

Hatred was fear.

_“I’m not sure how long this can go on,”_ Mycroft’s voice brought Sherlock to a halt. Redbeard skidded to a halt further down the corridor, looking back and panting, eager to get outside. Sherlock however was frozen, Mycroft’s voice was slightly muffled by the door but not so much he couldn’t discern the words.

_“The situation is unsustainable.”_ Sherlock pressed his ear to the door but it didn’t help and he scowled, beckoning Redbeard to come back and join him. The puppy bounded up, still excited and Sherlock smiled at him. He sat down by the door and started to run his fingers through Redbeard’s silken fur. He had experiments he wanted to run on that fur, but only when Redbeard was due for a haircut. Sherlock didn’t want his new friend to be hurt, or get cold.

There was someone else in the room with Mycroft. Or maybe he was using a spell or something to talk to someone a long way away because Sherlock could only hear murmurs in reply to Mycroft’s words.

_“He’s always been unreasonable Joshua, I’d rather not let this escalate to the point where he becomes impossible to deal with.”_ Sherlock swallowed. It wasn’t him, he was certain; Mycroft couldn’t be talking about him… right?

Sherlock felt cold. Cold like he did when he met Death, when he looked up and felt that strange stillness and shivered even though the room had been warm. He was afraid, Sherlock realised. He had been afraid that Death was there to take everything else away from him like he had taken Ning. Now he was afraid of something else.

_“Evidently it was a mistake to take him in. I know he asked for this but it may be time to let him go,”_ Mycroft said and Sherlock felt the tight knot of emotion in his chest freeze over. _“No, no I won’t sign an execution order. There’s no need for drastic measures. Just… when he runs we’ll let him go,”_

Sherlock buried his face into Redbeard’s fur, desperately trying to stifle the sob. Mycroft didn’t want him anymore. He was too much of a problem. He hated Mycroft and Mycroft didn’t care except that he was causing a problem so now… now he was going to throw Sherlock away.

He wouldn’t follow if Sherlock ran. He hadn’t last time, when Death was here.

Sherlock didn’t want to be alone again. He hated Mycroft but he didn’t have anyone else. He only had Redbeard and he was a dog. Fear choked Sherlock, froze his chest, and left his limbs uncooperative and trembling. Redbeard whined but Sherlock couldn’t respond. Mycroft was getting rid of him. Sherlock didn’t have anywhere to go.

Redbeard squirmed from his arms and reached up to scratch at the closed door of Mycroft’s office, whining and yipping.

“Redbeard what…? Sherlock?” Mycroft’s vice wasn’t muffled by the door anymore, though Sherlock barely heard the door open. The puppy scrambled backwards as Mycroft knelt down beside him. “Sherlock what’s wrong?” Mycroft asked his voice gentle and calm. Sherlock hated it.

He hated Mycroft, he hated that Mycroft didn’t care, he hated that Mycroft wanted to get rid of him.

He curled up into a ball and cried.

He didn’t have anyone else, what would happen if he didn’t have Mycroft?

***

Hatred was relentless.

His migraines were getting worse. He didn’t dare tell Mycroft. Mycroft was already planning on getting rid of him, if he knew that Sherlock’s migraines were getting worse then he would just get rid of him quicker. It _hurt_ though. It hurt _so much_. It hurt more than losing Ning and more than hating Mycroft. He hugged Redbeard tightly, willing the pain away and stifling his sobs in the red fur.

It used to be that the migraines were like storms. They built from a pressure system until they broke, leaving him in unspeakable agony until the pressure faded and they melted away into nothing. Usually because Mycroft had fixed his brain, just enough to cope.

Since Ning died, since _before_ Ning died they had become something more like the tide. The pain never went away completely, but at low tide at least Sherlock could think. Sherlock could try to absorb the information that pounded through his head constantly. At high tide nothing could help, nothing could stop it. It was just constantly relentless waves of pain breaking and crashing against his skull leaving him helpless. Mycroft didn’t know because Sherlock made sure Mycroft didn’t know. Ning helped him hide it, running away to find some new place to explore, letting Sherlock hug him until it went away.

Now Redbeard helped him hide it. The puppy was endlessly patient, endlessly loving. He sat there and let Sherlock hug him until he felt stable again. It wasn’t as good as Mycroft’s healing touch, but he couldn’t tell Mycroft because Mycroft wanted to get rid of him.

He didn’t even know if Mycroft would even help him anymore if he did ask. Mycroft didn’t care about him, why would he help someone that hated him?

Sherlock was afraid though. He didn’t know what to do. He didn’t know how to stop the pain. He didn’t know how to stop the constant, never ending information. He didn’t dare leave his room unless necessary; he couldn’t take looking at something or someone and knowing everything about them. It _hurt_ and he couldn’t stop it.

He whimpered. Redbeard’s head came up as he looked at Sherlock miserably. The dog’s tail wasn’t wagging anymore. He licked Sherlock’s face, just once, and snuffed at his hair. The feeling of warm breath tickled and Sherlock let out a small giggle, despite the pain and the tears. Redbeard nuzzled at him even more, sensing in the way that some dogs did, that it was making him feel better. Sherlock squealed and then winced as the sound went straight to his head.

“Sherlock?” A hand rapped on the door and Sherlock scowled, hugging Redbeard tightly an trying very hard not to lose the few seconds of happiness he’d felt. No such luck however because Mycroft entered the room without waiting for a response.

The pain came back in an instant. Sherlock hadn’t even realised that the migraine had been easing until it came back, hitting hard enough to make him gasp and let go of his puppy.

“Oh Sherlock,” Mycroft sighed already reaching out a hand.

Then Sherlock knew. He didn’t know how he knew; he couldn’t put it in words. If Mycroft touched him the pain would get worse.

“No!” Sherlock screamed, ignoring the way it made his head feel like it exploded. “Don’t touch me! Don’t touch me!” He didn’t want Mycroft’s help; he didn’t want Mycroft’s pity. He _definitely_ didn’t want Mycroft to touch him and make the pain worse.

He didn’t want _Mycroft_.

He just wanted Redbeard.

He screwed his eyes shut, tightened his arms around his dog and wished to be Somewhere Else.

Then he was.

 

“Well then,” A familiar voice said, surprised, “I wasn’t expecting any guests,”

Sherlock opened his eyes to see Death peering down at him.

“You don’t look very well Sherlock,” Death commented.

“It hurts,” Sherlock managed to whisper before the world went black.

***

Hatred is love.

It’s a hard thing to understand, that two feelings that were, on the face of it at least, so dissimilar were so interconnected. Yet without love there can be no such thing as hatred. It is love that inspires the heat of passion, it is love at the root of soul-crushing grief and it is love that leads so inevitably to fear. We need not love the things we hate but love had to be there somewhere or else the intensity of emotion is not achieved.

You can hate someone for killing the person you love even if you’ve never met them before.

It is however the truth that you will hate someone for killing the person you love with far more intensity if you loved them in the first place.

Sherlock hated Mycroft.

Sherlock however also loved him.

Mycroft was the only family he had ever known. The only reason Sherlock did not call Mycroft Father was because of Mycroft’s own personal issues. They were brothers in name, parent and child in heart. If it had been anyone else, anyone other than Sherlock then Death would already have urged Mycroft to take a step back, to recover his impartiality.

Yet Death had not seen Mycroft so attached to someone, so in love with someone since before Creation was formed. Mycroft loved, that was never in doubt, and he always loved intensely. Until Sherlock, Death had not known Mycroft to love _well_. That made it all the more puzzling and heart-breaking when Sherlock appeared suffering from wave after wave of agony with his brother nowhere in sight.

So Death did the sensible thing. He picked Sherlock up and carried him somewhere safe and quiet and warm, the dog trotting at his heels, and then settled down to take care of the child.

Mycroft was not the issue here. Death considered as he watched the child sleep, Redbeard curled up safely at his master’s feet. Mycroft was, in this instant, constant and his care for Sherlock not in doubt. Death knew that would not necessarily remain so because Mycroft had habits. Just because Sherlock seemed to have dug his way into Mycroft’s heart in a way no one had ever done before, not even the Morningstar, it did not mean Mycroft would break eons of habit. That would however not happen for a while yet. Sherlock was young, vulnerable and needed Mycroft and Death had never known Mycroft to be irresponsible. When Sherlock was old enough to look after himself that was when the danger lay. Assuming that he made it that far.

That meant that Sherlock instead was the issue. A child genius and the god of science, Sherlock was driven by logic but controlled by his youth and emotions. If Death had to guess Sherlock’s conflicted feelings over Mycroft, his grief for his friend and the pain of his migraine had overridden his logic a little. There was no other reason why Sherlock would be here, on the other side of the planet from where Mycroft was having clearly used magic he couldn’t control just yet to transport himself here – as far away from Mycroft as it was possible to get and still remain on the planet.

The migraine was interesting, Death noted. He could see it, a physical manifestation of the pain Sherlock was feeling. He could see it ebbing away, surprisingly rapidly given how much pain Sherlock had been in when he had arrived. It definitely wasn’t the first one, nor did he suspect it would be the last. The brain of a child plus all the scientific discovery of the last few years? Death would be surprised if the child wasn’t having headaches of some kind.

There was something however that Death couldn’t quite put his finger on.

Something that just wasn’t quite right.

He would just have to wait and keep careful watch to find out what it was.

***

Hatred was…

 

Nothing.

 

There was nothing. No pain, no fear, no anger. Just a quiet stillness that saturated the air around him left him feeling quiet and peaceful. He could feel Redbeard lying on his feet, warming them. He could feel soft, crisp linens of the bed he was lying on. It was nice. There was no pain, his headache gone almost entirely. Must be the spring tide he thought ridiculously. It took him longer than he’d like to admit to realise that the stillness was familiar and then to remember the last few minutes before the world had gone black.

“You’re awake,” Death said as Sherlock blinked his eyes open.

“Am I dead?” Sherlock asked quietly because he couldn’t think of any other reason why he was here. He remembered the pain had spiked as Mycroft arrived, he remembered being certain that it would hurt all the more if Mycroft touched him. Maybe Mycroft had touched him and it had made his brain explode and now he was dead?

“No,” Death answered calmly. As Sherlock stared up at him Death stared right back at him. It was… odd. Death was odd. Sherlock looked him over, trying to read everything that made Death well Death in his clothes and his demeanour and the lines in his face. What he saw however was nothing. It wasn’t that he couldn’t read Death, he could read everyone. It was rather there was nothing _to_ read. Death simply was.

“Where am I?” Sherlock asked eventually, as Death continued to sit in silence.

“In my home, well my temporary home,” Death replied. Then he tilted his head and looked at Sherlock with the same undisguised curiosity that Sherlock had no doubt worn only moments ago. “Where you are is of far less importance than _why_ you are here and _how_ ,”

“I’m a god,” Sherlock sniffed, refusing to even think about the answer to that first question and focusing on the second. “I must have magicked myself here,”

“You did,” Death replied, “However Sherlock you are the God of _Science_ , magic or not you should not be able to break the laws of physics. Bend, yes, but not break entirely. Transporting yourself as you did should not be possible,”

“Clearly it is,” Sherlock replied stubbornly, lifting his chin up slightly to stare Death down hiding any fear he might have felt. “Else I wouldn’t be here,”

“Clearly,” Death mused and blinked slowly, his eyes refocusing on Redbeard. The large puppy was panting, tail thumping heavily against the sheets of Sherlock’s bed, no sign of concern or upset. It was the first time in a while, Redbeard had been picking up on Sherlock’s own stress and not even the enthusiasm and energy of a puppy could keep up against such relentless pain. “You’re treating him well I see,”

“Of course,” Sherlock scoffed, as if he would do anything less. Redbeard was _his_.

“Hmm,” Death said neutrally looking back at Sherlock. “So Sherlock, perhaps you would care to explain why you are here?” He asked and Sherlock swallowed heavily. His heart began to hammer in his ears, a response Sherlock knew to the sudden panic that swelled within him but one he couldn’t stop. Death was Mycroft’s friend, he’d seen that the instant he arrived in Mycroft’s office to see them playing chess, would Death send Sherlock back? Mycroft didn’t want him, but Death might feel the need to send him back anyway.

Sherlock kept his mouth shut, scrunching his fingers into the fine sheets, staring at the way that the white linen crinkled and creased around them. Death also did not say anything; rather he waited patiently as if he had nowhere else better to be. As if he could wait forever. Maybe he could, Sherlock didn’t know. What he did know was that he and Death were locked in some kind of silent battle of wills; Death would not let this go until Sherlock answered but Sherlock did not want to answer. Sadly however he already knew he couldn’t outwait Death, no one could.

“I hate him,” Sherlock said eventually still refusing to look up.

“We did establish that last time we met, yes,” Death answered, “That does not explain why you are here now,” Sherlock swallowed again, his mouth dry. His eyes started to burn against his will and he clamped his jaw shut tightly against the threat of his chin starting to wobble. He wasn’t going to cry, he _wasn’t_ , he refused.

“I hate him and he doesn’t care,” Sherlock said through gritted teeth. “He’s going to get rid of me!”

“I would be very surprised if that was the case,” Death said looking at him with dark eyes that saw everything. “Mycroft is not the kind of man to abandon a child that needs him,”

“I don’t need him!” Sherlock argued and Death simply watched him. It was a lie and they both knew it. Sherlock hated Mycroft but he had no other home, nowhere else to go. “I don’t,” He whispered, his voice hitching around the lump in his throat.

“Tell me what happened,” Death insisted, his voice firm and unyielding. Sherlock was no more able to refuse the order, and it was an order, than he was able to deny who and what Death was. His voice hitched again, breaking horribly, as he spoke. He told Death about the disregard Mycroft held for Sherlock’s hatred, he told him about the overheard conversation where Mycroft said he would not follow if Sherlock ran, he told him about the migraines and how they got worse when Mycroft was near. The words tumbled out, Sherlock unable to stop them, unable to censor them and as he spoke his control eroded. By the end he was crying openly, barely able to get the words out through the thick sobs that made his chest ache.

Death sat and listened and watched, attentive but utterly neutral. If there was a flicker of anything it was curiosity at the idea that Mycroft made Sherlock’s headaches worse.

“Oh Sherlock,” The figure sighed quietly when Sherlock finished. A look of compassion filled Death’s eyes even if his face remained neutral. “It’s been a rough few months for you hasn’t it little one?” Sherlock hiccupped and nodded, pushing away the wet nose that was shoved in his face, Redbeard offering what comfort he could in the face of Sherlock’s pain. “Well not to worry, I’ll set this right even if I have to smack that brother of yours around the head a few times,” Death promised and somehow, for some reason that Sherlock couldn’t even begin to name he believed him. After all what reason did Death have to lie? He didn’t need to, he never did.

“You promise?” Sherlock asked hiccupping again.

“I promise,” Death replied quietly. “I’ll see this fixed,”

Sherlock was ancient, a god several centuries old already but he was also still a child and he reacted like a child. The promise of a solution was nothing less than overwhelming in the face of his exhausted grief and hurt. He sobbed once more and then threw himself into Death’s arms. It said more than enough about how overcome that he didn’t notice how startled Death was at receiving another hug from him, nor the several seconds it took for the hug to be returned.

“Don’t worry Sherlock,” Death murmured into his ear once more, “I’ll fix this,”

Sherlock believed him.


	9. Glory

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to the (slightly late) anniversary chapter of Chronicles of a Young God. The Deux ex Mycroft series is now a year old! (how did that happen?). This should have been out on the 3rd but I misremembered the date and though it was the 8th. Never mind, it's the thought that counts. There's a long note at the end of this chapter with more spoilery comments.
> 
> This is (more or less) the last chapter in this little plot-arc. This chapter also represents the half-way point of Chronicles of a Young God. Hurrah!

**China/Moscow 1606 - 1613**

Mycroft would not lie, when Sherlock and Redbeard vanished from right in front of his eyes he panicked. He was not particularly proud of this; he should know better. However the truth of the matter was that he’d already been not at his best before entering the room, seeing Sherlock in clear agony hadn’t helped matters. When Sherlock vanished, wielding magic that he should not be able to command let alone control, he panicked.

“Sherlock!” He called out turning to see if somehow the boy had only managed to teleport a few feet and was somehow still in the room. “Sherlock!” There was no sign. Just an empty room.

Mycroft didn’t stop to think. He simply tore through the house they were staying in, looking desperately for any sign of the boy. Who knew what using such magic would do to him? Sherlock was the God of Science; to break the laws of the physical world would not end well for him. Sherlock was metaphysical by nature but that did not mean magic was his to command. He had already been suffering from a migraine. He could be hurt, or worse. He could be drained of every scrap of energy.

He could be dead.

Panic was not a natural state for Mycroft. He tried to remain calm and impartial at all times, maintained his distance and his tight emotional control. For a being like Mycroft to panic carried potentially catastrophic consequences. Sherlock however eroded every bit of control Mycroft had. Not even Lucifer’s rebellion had driven Mycroft to this state. He hadn’t panicked like this since… well the less said about last time Mycroft had panicked the better. Even during that disaster in Jerusalem he hadn’t _panicked_ , he’d been afraid yes but he had retained his composure and control in spite of that.

Perhaps it said something that both the beings that drove Mycroft to lose control were…

No, he wouldn’t think about that. He wouldn’t make the obvious comparisons.

“Sherlock!” Mycroft called out again desperately though it was clear that Sherlock was not here, nor anywhere on the property. He needed to stop, to _think_ just for a moment but fear was driving him onwards with little regard for common sense.

The property turned up empty and so Mycroft moved on; he searched the surroundings – all of Sherlock’s favourite escape routes and hidey holes. He went back to Ning’s village. He searched out every place that had caught Sherlock’s attention for more than five minutes. Nothing. Driven by some unnameable force Mycroft went to Japan, hunted out the one person he could rely on to help him without too many questions.

“Sir?” Remiel turned to him as he appeared beside her, waving his hand to make the humans she was speaking to forget that he had appeared literally out of thin air.

“Sherlock’s missing,” Mycroft said, “I can’t find him,” Remiel looked at him, her eyes too knowing.

“Can you not find him, or are you just too worked up to find him?” She asked, cutting to the heart of the matter immediately. “Sir, you know where he is; you always know where everyone is. Stop, calm down and listen.”

Right. That was a thing.

Calm Mycroft told himself. Calm.

He waved a hand at the still confused humans and froze them in an instant of time. They wouldn’t notice later, probably. If they did they’d just dismiss it as being their imaginations, or not enough sleep or too much alcohol or something along those lines.

Calm.

Where was Sherlock? He knew this, of course he did. Remiel was right, he always knew, so long as he stayed calm and not panicking at least.

It hit him out of nowhere and he almost groaned with his own stupidity. Sherlock was with Death, of course he was, he’d seen the two of them bond somehow with his own eyes. In his pain and panic Sherlock had wished to be somewhere safe and Death, for all that they’d only met the once, was safe. There were few places that were safer in fact.

Letting out the breath he didn’t need but had been holding anyway Mycroft opened his eyes to meet Remiel’s. She looked worried and it was no wonder why. Mycroft always, _always_ tried to keep his composure about the one child he allowed to stay with him. Remiel was stubborn, too stubborn to be put off which was why he allowed her to be here instead of sending her back to her siblings in Heaven but she was also still his daughter. She still viewed him as something impossible and unbreakable and Mycroft had no intention of ever letting her know otherwise. Whatever suspicions she had about his absence from Heaven he would never confirm and they did not come even close to the truth. Mycroft was a long way from unbreakable.

“Sir?” Remiel asked quietly.

“He’s with Death,” Mycroft sighed. “My dear I am sorry, there’s no excuse for such a display,”

“Sir… Father,” Remiel said quietly, “I would not be half the assistant that I am if I had not realised what Sherlock means to you. Go, he’s upset right now but he needs you,” She was saddened by that, by the realisation that Sherlock had some hold over Mycroft that none of her siblings could claim, let alone her.

“Remiel…” Mycroft started but then stopped himself. There was nothing he could say that could ease that pain, he knew that. His reasons were his own and despite the pain he had caused he did not regret his departure, but that would not fix what was broken. It would not ease the pain. He sighed inwardly and then nodded once to her, waving his hand to unfreeze the humans he departed heading halfway around the world to where he could feel his oldest friend.

“Stop,” Death said the moment Mycroft appeared. “Don’t come any closer,” Mycroft blinked, confused, but then he saw the tiny figure in Death’s arms. Sherlock was unconscious, his forehead scrunched up in pain. Unable to fully stop himself Mycroft stepped forward, hand reaching for Sherlock to soothe. “Mycroft, _stop_ ,” it was an order and one that even Mycroft dare not refuse.

“Death?” Mycroft frowned.

“You can’t touch him,” Death said and laid the too-still figure on the bed. Mycroft watched, his insides twisting into knots, and observed that Sherlock looked faint. “Come,” Death said as Redbeard snuggled up closer to the tiny figure, “Redbeard will warn us if anything happens. We need to talk,” Mycroft felt his heart sink, just slightly. Those words were never followed by anything good, not matter who was saying them.

“Very well,” He agreed, because he didn’t dare to anything else. He followed Death out of the room, glancing back briefly at Sherlock. The boy seemed more relaxed already, the creases of pain smoothing out just a fraction. Mycroft sighed his quiet relief and left the room entirely.

Death led him through the house that he was taking temporary residence in until they reached his study. The sole focus of the room, it seemed, was the enormous window. Made up of small, delicate panels of muff glass in a lattice of lead the window looked out over Moscow with a frankly stunning view of the Kremlin. Knowing what was to come for this country in the next few years Mycroft was not surprised Death had chosen to make residence here. There had already been one slaughter, the next would not be long in coming.

"Sit," Death commanded and Mycroft sat. The chairs in Death's office were simple and utilitarian; the whole study was like that in fact. Death had little use for extraneous decoration. The only thing that did not fit was the elaborate chess board. Mycroft hoped Death was not angling for another game; he would undoubtedly lose even faster than he usually did.

"What is going on?" Mycroft asked as Death sank gracefully into his own seat.

"What is Sherlock?" Death countered with his own question.

"He's the God of Science, you know that," Mycroft frowned at him.

"He is _not_ ," Death replied frankly. "No God of Science could teleport himself halfway around the world,"

"Then what is he?" Mycroft asked, frowning. It wasn't that Death was incorrect but that it threw up some very worrying implications. Sherlock had been the God of Science that much was true. What he was now... that was another question entirely.

"That is a very good question," Death replied. "Aside from a scared, grieving little boy I don't know. Are you aware that he believes you are going to abandon him?"

"What, why?" Mycroft asked. That made no sense, although perhaps it did explain why Sherlock was so skittish around him. He'd thought perhaps Sherlock had turned a corner when it came to recovering from his friend's death when he'd received Redbeard but then his illness had gotten worse and suddenly Sherlock wouldn't even speak to him anymore. Not even to tell Mycroft that he hated him.

"I don't know, you tell me," Death said. "Apparently he heard a conversation between you and Joshua about removing someone from their position, allowing them to run instead of executing them,"

Mycroft groaned. He couldn't help it. Of all the conversations for Sherlock to have overheard that was perhaps one of the more damning.

"Metatron," Mycroft sighed. "I knew he was going to cause me problems. Unfortunately he was very useful in the short term. He's planning on leaving Heaven, I told Joshua to let him go and have Michael keep an eye on him from a distance. He has a part to play yet, though what that will be depends entirely on how the next couple of centuries turn out,"

"I told you raising mortals to angelic existence was a bad plan," Death said neutrally. "Aside from the fact that it irritates me on principle,"

"Angels are only functionally immortal. Enoch will die eventually," Mycroft dismissed the comment. "So what do we do about Sherlock?" He asked his oldest friend.

"I'm going to suggest something," Death said, "And you aren't going to like it, but hear me out before you decide to attempt to smite me. Again."

"I've only done that once and you were being exceptionally obtuse," Mycroft replied. "Tell me,"

"Leave Sherlock here, with me," Death said and Mycroft stared at him. In what world did Death think _that_ would solve anything? "I'll be here for the next five years at least, maybe as many as ten depending on how things play out. Sherlock will get a stable home, for a time, with me. I'm perfectly capable of handling his headaches and I have several leads when it comes to working out what he actually is. Give him some space, Mycroft, to grieve but also to understand that you aren't going anywhere."

"How does that work when I won't even be on the same continent as he is?" Mycroft enquired.

"Letters and visits," Death answered. "Object permanence Mycroft, let him learn that even if you aren't there right now you will come back eventually."

"And what, exactly, are you going to do with a small child underfoot?" Mycroft asked.

"I thought I'd start with some experiments," Death replied blithely and Mycroft had to bite back the urge to curse. Death might be his oldest friend, his only friend if one wanted to be technical, but he was also extremely irritating when he wanted to be. He was, also, unfortunately correct. Space to grieve and heal was what Sherlock needed and he wasn't getting it with Mycroft. Mycroft attempted to focus his gaze on the future, on what would happen if he chose this path and nearly startled at what he found.

He had looked into Sherlock's future before, but usually only a few centuries down the line. He had never felt the need to look at his immediate future. What he saw though, left him cold. The line where Sherlock stayed with Mycroft was distressingly short and Mycroft didn't dare look to find out why. The line where Sherlock stayed with Death reeled off into the distant future, although the immediate future was cloudy and uncertain. He could pick it apart but he had a feeling it was probably best not to, at least not right now.

"Do you know something?" Mycroft asked focusing back on Death who was only watching him carefully.

"I don't know anything you don't," Death answered, which wasn't an answer at all and Mycroft glared at him to make it clear that it wasn't acceptable. "I have suspicions. I can't be certain, not yet."

"I could be," Mycroft pointed out.

"But you know, don't you, that looking right now would end badly?" Death replied. "Some things need to be learned slowly, in order to understand the full ramifications,"

"I'm going to see him before I leave," Mycroft argued and Death inclined his head.

"So be it," Death agreed.

***

Sherlock looked terrible. Mycroft wondered if it was only this migraine was particularly horrible or if Sherlock had been fading for a while and it was just that now it was impossible to deny. The bed swamped the child's small body, the crisp white sheets almost the same colour as Sherlock's skin.

"How are you feeling Sherlock?" Mycroft asked as Sherlock stared at him, confused and pained.

"My head hurts," He said simply as he tried to work out why Mycroft was here.

"So Death tells me," Mycroft said and then sighed. "I'm sorry Sherlock,"

"Why?" Sherlock asked.

"Death tells me you overheard a conversation. A conversation where I was discussing the process of firing a particularly troublesome employee. He seemed to believe that you thought I was talking about you," Mycroft said and Sherlock looked down at his sheets, dark eyes sparkling with supressed emotion. "Sherlock I will never abandon you," He promised and hated that several broken promises immediately sprang to mind. "I will not abandon you unless you ask me to go." That was slightly better, but not perfect. "You are my brother, the only one I have,"

"You aren't staying," Sherlock accused and Mycroft blinked. "Don’t lie to me. I can see it," He could, Mycroft realised, he was reading Mycroft as he read humans. He was charting Mycroft’s intent in his posture and expression and clothing. It was strange to have that skill turned against him, especially as Mycroft had been the one to teach Sherlock that anyway.

"For a little while," Mycroft answered honestly, because lying at this stage would not help matters. "You are ill Sherlock and neither Death nor I are entirely certain why. You also commanded magic that you shouldn't be able to."

"So your answer is to leave?" Sherlock frowned.

"Death is staying here for several years," Mycroft said, "He offered, so that you would have somewhere safe and stable to recover. If you come with me you will be dragged all over the world, which would not be good for your health, and I would not have the time to devote to trying to work out what is wrong and how to fix it."

"I thought you knew everything," Sherlock accused, "Omniscience, remember?"

"It's not quite that simple," Mycroft said. "I can know everything, of course I can, but sometimes it is better not to. Learning things the hard way gives you a chance to reflect on what you learn, to see the best way forward instead of leaping into a course of action without consideration of the consequences,"

"That's ridiculous," Sherlock pouted crossing his arms over his chest. Mycroft supressed a smile.

"Patience is a virtue Sherlock," he replied. "I will visit, and write as often as I can. Death will look after you,"

"You'll come back?" Sherlock asked.

"I'll come back," Mycroft promised.

"Okay," Sherlock nodded.

Mycroft leant down to kiss his forehead and ignored the wince that the child gave as his migraine spiked.

***

It was odd, traveling without Sherlock. It was too quiet, yet at the same time it felt strangely natural to step back into the habit of working twenty four hours a day now he no longer had a small child demanding attention. Mycroft kept his promise to write; though he had yet to find the time to visit, and made sure he kept Death abreast of everything he discovered while scouring Creation for answers. Sherlock hadn't written back yet, Death told him that the boy was still uncertain, but he was starting to recover somewhat according to the reports Death sent him.

"Sir," Remiel nodded as they reunited in Japan. She didn't mention the lack of a tiny dark-haired shadow and Mycroft didn't tell her. She probably knew anyway, she had a knack for finding out things like that. She probably knew about his search, done in the in between hours once one duty was completed and before the next started, but there was little she could do to help except ensure that those in between hours lasted as long as possible.

Six months after Mycroft left Sherlock with Death he made his way back to Moscow. He found Death at a park, sitting in the shade of a tree watching people walk by. There was no sign of Sherlock but Mycroft wasn't worried, he could feel the boy's presence, along with his dog, not too far away.

"How is he?" Mycroft asked.

"He will be better for your visit," Death replied, "He misses you,"

"I miss him," Mycroft admitted, because this was Death and admitting such things to Death was sometimes easier than admitting it to himself.

"You've been spoiling that boy though," Death replied, "He is brilliant, make no mistake, but there's no discipline to him,"

"He's a child, barely five years old by human standards," Mycroft pointed out.

"He's a god, he grows in accordance with his own abilities and the advancement of that which he is god of. Science is far more disciplined than Sherlock is right now." Death countered.

"I thought he wasn't a god," Mycroft frowned.

"He isn't _only_ a god," Death corrected. "You know that,"

"All the evidence does point that way," Mycroft agreed. Any further discussion however of what Sherlock was, was cut off when the child in question appeared. He had grown; Mycroft noticed immediately and knew Death was right. Sherlock wasn't stifled exactly under Mycroft's care, but he wasn't pushed either, not really. Mycroft didn't have the time to do it properly.

"Death my head hurts," Sherlock complained as he approached, Redbeard trotting at his heels. The dog had grown too, stuck between puppy and adolescent. Sherlock's eyes landed on Mycroft and lit up. "Mycroft!"

"Hello Sherlock," Mycroft smiled, "Did you get my letters?" He asked and Sherlock grinned, throwing himself forward to hug Mycroft with absolutely none of the hesitance that he'd shown last time they had been together.

"Yes," Sherlock said and then sniffed. "I still hate you, so I haven't replied, but you're allowed to keep writing," he informed Mycroft imperiously.

"As you command, little brother," Mycroft replied and lifted Sherlock up onto his knee. "How are you feeling Sherlock?" He asked and Sherlock shrugged.

"My head hurts," He repeated, "But not as badly as it used to."

"I'm glad to hear it," Mycroft said gently. He didn’t dare hope that this lull would keep but it was nice to hear anyway. The three beings plus one semi-immortal dog left the park, strolling along the streets of Moscow. Sherlock chatted away, telling Mycroft of everything that he had been doing since Mycroft had left, and he seemed happy. He was certainly happier than he had been before, despite the headache.

Unfortunately it would seem that Sherlock's respite from his headaches was doomed to end too soon. A few hours after Mycroft's arrival they were forced to return to Death's home when Sherlock nearly collapsed from pain. Death put the boy to bed and then led Mycroft away.

"That's the first real migraine he's had isn't it?" Mycroft asked, knowing the answer before Death replied.

"Yes," Death said. Mycroft didn't say the first thing that came into his mind, but then he didn't need to. They both already knew.

***

"I'm killing him," Mycroft said the second time he visited Sherlock, a year after leaving him to be fostered with Death, after Death had put Sherlock to bed. Once again Sherlock had been fine on Mycroft's arrival, but quickly succumbed to a migraine.

"Not intentionally," Death replied bringing out the chessboard. They both needed to sit and think and chess was the best method either of them had.

"This has something to do with the omniscience," Mycroft said after a few moves. "I fed it to him initially to help him cope with the weight of scientific knowledge on his young brain. I never let it integrate, just ease the neural pathways until he could cope,"

"He got used to leaching energy from you to ease his headaches, but some wires got crossed somewhere. It's not just the omniscience he's feeding off," Death agreed.

"Omnipotence is not healthy for a young god," Mycroft observed.

"It's not that either," Death said, "Or not solely that." That much was certain but what else it was, neither of them could quite put into words just yet. It would come, in time, but until then.

"I can't keep visiting can I?" Mycroft asked.

"No," Death shook his head.

***

"It isn't a problem now," Death commented. This time, just shy of two years into Sherlock's fostering, Death had come to Mycroft to help him investigate some unusual energy that he had discovered in Mexico. The source, Mycroft had realised, was Mycroft's smiting of Tlaloc what was now over thirty five years ago. "He's too young to reach very far when he draws energy, but as he gets older he's going to have a greater and greater range. Eventually even being on the same planet as him will be enough for him to leach off you,"

"Does he leach off anything?" Mycroft asked.

"In the absence of your presence, yes." Death replied. "Except me. He can't leach off me,"

"That's a relief at least," Mycroft prodded at the energy. "Tlaloc appears to be extremely stubborn. There aren't many things that linger once I order them to cease existing,"

"It is Tlaloc, or is it Sherlock?" Death enquired.

"What do you mean?" Mycroft frowned at him.

"Nothing," Death replied and then looked at Mycroft. "This energy draw, it will kill him eventually,"

"He's finally appeared on your list has he?" Mycroft had known that was inevitable the moment he realised what Sherlock was doing. Death said nothing only handed over a tablet computer with a list. Mycroft ignored the breach of the rules of time for once and took the object. He scrolled down the list and found Sherlock's name and the cause of death. There was no date, not yet, but that didn't really matter.

_Metaphysical strain._

"The question then isn't what is he, but rather what can we do to delay it as long as possible?" Mycroft said handing the tablet back.

"The two questions are intrinsically linked. Find the answer to one and we'll find the answer to the other," Death replied. Mycroft waved a hand and gathered up the lingering energy from Tlaloc, merging into his own. It was the safest thing to do with such energies.

"Let me look into it," He said after a long moment and then he was gone. He had work to do.

***

In the end it took seven years scouring not just the Earth but the whole of creation. There was not, Mycroft realised, anything quite like Sherlock. He was still the God of Science, Mycroft rationalised, and thus whatever it was that he had evolved into had a basis in science. Sherlock was becoming a metaphysical construct of a scientific concept, or thus Mycroft deduced.

He followed the trail of energy, the one left behind by the passage of Sherlock and Mycroft, across the globe until he found the spark point. The moment when things began to change. He was unsurprised to find himself back in China; he was surprised that this was not related to Ning. That was, apparently, just a disturbing coincidence.

_The universe is rarely so lazy_ he told himself.

Ning wasn't a coincidence, but rather Fate dealing her hand. Fate did try not to get on Mycroft's bad side; although Mycroft himself had a fate that he would not avoid forever the only reason that Fate, as a personification, had any kind of power over him was because Mycroft allowed it. He would not avoid his fate, rather than _could not_. Granted avoiding it might take some creative tinkering of reality but that was a concern for another day. The point was that Fate clearly saw something in Sherlock and in Mycroft himself that required intervention. It was the only explanation.

Mycroft had tried to find a friend for Sherlock, in doing so Sherlock had collected a group of children together who started to worship him. Direct worship of Sherlock as a god, instead of just unshakable faith in science, triggered latent abilities in the young god and also caused Death's so-called wires to get crossed. Fate had put Ning in Sherlock's path right when he was making the transformation, which also explained why Mycroft had not been able to interfere to help Ning. He was not supposed to be there, except he was needed.

"Atropos," Mycroft said halting the Fate in her tracks as she moved about doing her duty.

"Sir," Atropos bowed her head in acknowledgement. "Did you need something?"

"It's about the threads," Mycroft said, "A boy, Ning..." He prompted.

"Yes sir, that was us," Atropos replied. "A messy business. Is the young balance point well? His thread still wavers but we dare not interfere more,"

"He'd dying," Mycroft answered, "How slowly remains to be seen. Balance point?" He enquired.

"I don't know sir," Atropos replied, "Only that the young god's thread seems to be tying together quite a few important events. We only know that he must live, else the balance will forever be disrupted,"

"Yes but which balance?" Mycroft enquired but let the Fate go without questioning her further. He moved onwards, following the trail. Balance point.

There were many possible interpretations but there was one glaring one that Mycroft did not like to consider. Death had said it, had he not, that there was a balance to be maintained in all things. Life and Death, well Mycroft and Death had that covered. Fate and free will; awkward but manageable. Light and Dark...

Light and Dark were most definitely out of balance. They had been since before Creation itself. _Let there be light._

The answer came to him and he really wished it hadn't. If and when she was ever freed it would be Sherlock's presence that would decide the fate of all creation – and of Mycroft.

He made his way to Moscow, it was dangerous to be so close to Sherlock, but he didn't feel he had a choice. He needed to speak to Death, immediately. He knew what Sherlock was and what it meant; he knew there was only one thing that could possibly be done.

When he arrived it was to turmoil. Redbeard greeted him in a panic. Mycroft pushed his way into the house and straight to where he could feel Death's presence. He was stood over Sherlock's bed a blank look on his face. In one hand he turned his ring over and over.

"He’s a metaphysical black hole,” Mycroft said quietly. “A nexus, for every kind of energy there is. He draws it in without discrimination but there’s nowhere for it to go. Eventually the energy will crush him,” Death looked up, solemn and grave. He already knew, Mycroft could tell immediately. When he had figured it out he probably would never tell. It didn’t really matter now.

"I am sorry Mycroft," Death said. "You know that there is only one way to save him now?"

Mycroft closed his eyes. He knew. He wished he could weep but the tears didn't come. Instead his wrists throbbed with an ancient pain.

"Do it," He said and sealed both of their Fates.

Sherlock would live, he had to. Sherlock however would never be what he was meant to be. His glory forever diminished.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comment the first: do you know how hard it is to write two nigh-omniscient beings trying to solve a puzzle when they can just know the answer? Very hard. Hopefully I've done it justice.
> 
> Comment the second: This chapter basically confirms what I've been hinting towards for the last few chapters - in short Amara will be making an appearance in Deus ex Mycroft (eventually). I still haven't seen the end of season 11 (urgh, don't ask) but I have a plan for her that will only be modified by the end of the season, not outright changed. I'm just having too much fun looking forward to Sherlock-Mycroft-Amara interactions to skip it.
> 
> Comment the fourth: As this is the anniversary celebration and I'm officially announcing that I have plans for basically five seasons of Supernatural and thus this series is not dying anytime soon I have decided to post an official timeline which will be regularly updated. Go check that out if you get confused about what happens when.
> 
> Comment the fifth: Anyone who wants to know why Death was in Moscow go and google 1606 and 'False Dmitri I' it's an interesting read.
> 
> Comment the sixth: You went back to look for comment the third didn't you? Sorry (not) couldn't resist


	10. Consequences

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back...! ... Yeah, let's just say it's been a really, really long year and a half. Real life sucks and completely sapped all motivation to getting things written and posted. However I refuse to abandon this series, I love it too much. This chapter has been sat 80% complete on my computer for a year and I finally finished it up. So you know, the next chapter is being a pain, but it will be awesome when it's done and the next two chapters after that are written and just need tidying up. I will try and make sure that it isn't another year before I update again, but alas I know myself too well.
> 
> Warnings for this chapter: child depression

**1613**

The bindings were like weeds; twining, choking, suffocating things. They twisted in and around everything that made Sherlock who he was without care. Mycroft could barely look at them without wincing but he forced himself to look anyway. He had never shied away from the consequences of his actions before and he would not start now.

He didn’t know if he was glad that Sherlock didn’t seem aware of the bindings or not. Nor did Mycroft know if he was relieved Sherlock didn’t remember the ritual which had infected Sherlock’s metaphysical core with a seed of Death’s own power and then encouraged it to grow. The metaphysical black hole in the very heart of Sherlock couldn’t draw from Death’s power; it was the only thing it couldn’t grasp. The bindings, originating from Death, kept the young singularity from drawing in power around him – especially from Mycroft. No longer was Mycroft’s very presence a threat to Sherlock’s life. Yet at the same time Sherlock would never again be more than a pagan god. Even then he would never rank among the greater gods like Kali or Zeus, though his followers would eventually number in the billions.

The God of Science, Mycroft acknowledged, would never be anything less than brilliant intellectually but the price of his life was to steal away the glory that should have been his birth right.

What Mycroft and Death had done was a betrayal, as much as locking Lucifer away in the Cage had been, as much as abandoning Heaven and his children there. As much as it had been to lock away his other half, his mirror long before there was even a concept of Creation. Yet, as with those other times Mycroft had betrayed someone he held dear, he refused to regret. Sherlock, even bound, was important and to lose him from the metaphysical strain of trying to take everything Mycroft was into himself was utterly unacceptable.

“Bye Death!” Sherlock said with a bright smile, hugging Death fiercely and without even a hint of fear. “You’ll visit won’t you?”

“I will,” Death promised the child. He didn’t need to, the bindings would hold for as long as Death existed, but Death liked Sherlock and it had been a very long time indeed since that had happened.

“He’ll hold you to that, I hope you know,” Mycroft said, amused, as Sherlock let go and then ran to pick up Redbeard, or attempt to given that the dog was now bigger than the child. Redbeard licked his face, making Sherlock squeal in disgust, and then obediently trotted to Mycroft’s side.

“I’ll visit,” Death promised not Sherlock this time, but Mycroft. His dark eyes fixed on Mycroft and Mycroft could read every word that he didn’t say out loud in them. _We don’t see one another often enough and you, at least, were never meant to be alone._

_Yet I could never be anything but, my friend._ Mycroft replied just as silently.

_You don’t have to be._ Death said and Mycroft averted his eyes, he knew what Death would say next and he didn’t want to hear it.

“Ready to go Sherlock?” he asked and Sherlock nodded, hoisting his bag further onto his shoulder.

“Thanks for looking after me Death!” Sherlock said with a bright smile and then Mycroft reached out and twisted and Death’s temporary home vanished, replaced with the apartment Mycroft was renting in New England.

“Go unpack,” Mycroft said shooing Sherlock towards the bedroom that would be his. “If you’re interested I’m going to meet one of the native tribes later this afternoon. If you ask nicely they may be willing to take you out on the lake in their bull-boats,” it would be a good way to welcome Sherlock back and to get him used, once more, to Mycroft’s work.

“No, that’s okay,” Sherlock replied and Mycroft blinked in surprise. Sherlock _never_ turned down a chance to get onto a boat or ship, especially not when it was one he’d never been on before. “I’m going to run experiments here.”

“Are you sure?” Mycroft frowned, “We won’t be staying here long, once we move further west there won’t be as many chances to sail anywhere.”

“Dull,” Sherlock pronounced. “Sailing is irrelevant. I’ve deleted it.”

“Deleted it?” Mycroft moved across the room then to kneel by Sherlock. “What do you mean deleted?” he asked meeting Sherlock’s grey eyes. Sherlock stared back, his expression bored with no suggestion of his former obsession with ships and boats and pirates.

“My mind is a well-tuned instrument,” Sherlock sniffed haughtily. “I have to keep it that way. If it’s not important I delete it,” he announced and then shrugged. “Well I assume it wasn’t important, or I wouldn’t have deleted it,” he turned then to Redbeard and seemed to be preparing to leave but Mycroft wasn’t ready to let him go yet. He reached out and caught Sherlock’s arm gently.

“Did Death teach you to do that?” he asked. It could have been a legitimate technique Death taught him to help with the headaches but Mycroft wasn’t so sure. Sherlock turned back to him and then scoffed silently.

“No,” he answered. It struck Mycroft then that Sherlock seemed… older somehow. He had aged while he was being fostered by Death, grown into a boy of perhaps eight years, but his eyes revealed the centuries he had actually lived as they never had done before. “It was a simple deduction.”

“Oh?” Mycroft asked.

“Well if my headaches were being caused by having too much information for my young brain then there were only two variables I could change. Either I had to grow up,” Sherlock pulled a face then. “Which is taking too long,” he scowled as he looked down at his still young body. “Or I had to limit the amount of data. Thus irrelevant or unimportant things had to be deleted.”

“So what did you delete, aside from sailing?” Mycroft enquired.

“I don’t know, I deleted it,” Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Bye Mycroft, enjoy your boring meeting,” he said and then disappeared into his room before Mycroft decided how to reply to that. Standing slowly Mycroft stared at the door of Sherlock’s room for a long moment and then turned away.

There would be consequences to the binding, Mycroft knew. No one could have such a crucial part of themselves locked away in such a manner and not suffer from some kind of consequences. Was this one of them or was it just Sherlock being Sherlock? It wasn’t the first time that Sherlock had shown scorn for a particular avenue of learning, but previously it had been art or language or history – assuming that none of them were related to pirates of course. This was the first time a branch of science had been considered useless by the young god.

He didn’t have time to consider it right now; he had a meeting to get to. He dropped in on the housekeeper before he left, made sure she knew to check in on Sherlock regularly to make sure he didn’t wander off, and then set out for work letting contemplation of Sherlock’s odd behaviour sink into the back of his mind to tick over.

**1622**

“Sherlock!” Mycroft shouted up the tree that his young ward had taken residence in.

“Go away Mycroft!” Sherlock shouted back, stubborn to the last.

“You have lessons, come down at once!” Mycroft shouted but the young god didn’t seem to care. Instead he scrambled further up the tree. Mycroft huffed. He hadn’t thought Sherlock could become _more_ stubborn than he already was and yet somehow he was. Death had commented about the lack of discipline but if he had managed to get Sherlock to behave for him then Mycroft would be astounded.

“Sherlock, I won’t warn you again. Get back down here!” He called up at the child. Sherlock sent a smirk to Mycroft and then climbed higher, the branches he was ensconced in getting thinner and more brittle.

“Gravity is an actual scientific process Sherlock,” Mycroft said dryly. “Those branches won’t hold your weight for long,” it might do him good to fall, perhaps he’d learn something. It would certainly get him out of the tree.

“I won’t fall!” Sherlock called back with all the bravado of a child who was rarely wrong. Six months ago Sherlock would have been correct, but the boy was growing rapidly, had been for years, and Mycroft knew that Sherlock hadn’t taken his larger size and weight into account when he’d made the calculations of how high he could climb.

“You’re going to fall,” Mycroft disagreed.

“Don’t worry so much Mycroft!” Sherlock scoffed. Mycroft rolled his eyes and glanced about, with Sherlock in the tree his copper-coloured companion had to be nearby. He whistled sharply and sure enough Redbeard, full grown now, bounded out from the undergrowth he’d been exploring with his nose to sit at Mycroft’s feet.

“I don’t suppose,” Mycroft spoke to the dog, crouching down to pet the beast as he waited for the inevitable, “That you could talk him out of doing such foolish things?” Redbeard panted eyes bright and tail thumping heavily on the ground. He didn’t look at all inclined to do Mycroft a favour. “No I didn’t think so,” above him several branches groaned and Mycroft looked up. Sherlock had frozen at the noise but it was too late. The branch he was on was buckling under his weight.

“I did warn you,” Mycroft observed dryly as with a crack the branch snapped. Sherlock let out a yelp of surprise as he fell. He did manage to break his fall a little on one of the lower, thicker branches but not enough to stop himself from landing heavily. He bit his lip, fighting back the instinctive yelp of pain and Mycroft almost winced in sympathy, standing back up. He had heard the crack of bone from here.

“Heel Redbeard,” Mycroft ordered the dog before he could bound up to Sherlock and do more damage. The god was cradling his broken arm and fighting the urge to cry. Sighing Mycroft walked over to the boy and this time knelt down so he could more easily reach out and inspect the limb.

“Hurts Mycroft,” Sherlock sniffed, but valiantly didn’t let the tears fall.

“You did fall out of a tree,” Mycroft replied inspecting the arm. “It’s not a bad break,” he said and then considered whether or not he should heal it. Sherlock could probably do with the lesson, both for listening to Mycroft and for doing his calculations correctly the first time to account for all variables. Yet Mycroft wasn’t quite able to shake the memory of Sherlock sobbing in agony from migraines that were slowly killing him. Not yet at least. Eventually, maybe, but not yet. He didn’t want Sherlock to suffer needlessly.

He reached out to prod the bone with his power and then paused. He prodded again and felt his breath hitch slightly in surprise.

That… wasn’t entirely normal.

“Mycroft?” Sherlock asked staring at him with shocking silver eyes. “Aren’t you going to heal me?” he asked in a quiet voice and Mycroft quickly gathered himself.

“I think, in this instance, it might serve as a lesson Sherlock,” he said and waved his hand. A cast appeared around Sherlock’s arm, encasing it and protecting the broken limb. “As I said, it’s not a bad break. It will heal quickly and well, so long as you don’t do anything stupid.”

“But…” Sherlock stammered staring at Mycroft wide eyed.

“You’re growing up Sherlock,” Mycroft said quietly, “I won’t always be there to fix every last mishap. Let this be a reminder, climbing trees is a dangerous business, get someone – me preferably – to check your calculations first,” he said and then stood, holding a hand out for Sherlock to take hold of. “Now come on little brother, you have lessons to attend.”

“But…” Sherlock started again. Still surprised, he wasn’t the only one.

“A broken arm won’t kill you Sherlock. It will be healed in a couple of weeks,” Mycroft huffed, projecting impatience he didn’t feel. Scowling Sherlock ignored the offered hand and instead used Redbeard to scramble to his feet. The dog didn’t seem to mind. Then they set off at a run back towards the house, Mycroft watched them go.

When they disappeared from sight he closed his eyes again and reached out.

His power slid off Sherlock like shadow from glass. He sensed that he _could_ force himself, heal Sherlock in spite of it, but considering that course of action set alarms blaring in his mind. Death’s binding kept Sherlock from absorbing Mycroft’s power, but equally it prevented Mycroft from using his power on Sherlock: at least not unless he was willing to put the bindings, and thus Sherlock, in jeopardy.

As far as consequences went it was one Mycroft should have expected. Yet he felt cold as he considered the implications.

Transporting Sherlock, manipulating the space around him, they would continue to be as easy as breathing. Healing him, protecting him, strengthening him (or in fact any of the opposite though Mycroft had no intentions of harming Sherlock, or weakening him more than he already had) were another matter entirely. If Sherlock got into trouble Mycroft would be… stuck. He couldn’t help. Not fully.

That was going to come back to haunt him, Mycroft knew already, but he didn’t look to see how. He would deal with it when it became an issue.

**1635**

Mycroft wasn’t sure what to do.

He stood, looking down at the curled up form lying in bed, wrapped in far more blankets than was strictly necessary.

Sherlock wasn’t in pain, his migraines hadn’t returned. He hadn’t been hurt. He wasn’t sick. Not in the traditional sense at least. He was just… resting. If one could describe three days of being unable to leave his bed as simply ‘resting’. This wasn’t rest; this was… apathy, soul-deep exhaustion. Depression.

Mycroft winced at the description, though it fit. There was nothing physically wrong with Sherlock, he just lacked that spark which gave him energy, gave him passion and filled him with life. He lay in bed, trying and failing to find the motivation and energy to get up and Mycroft could do nothing but stand by and watch. He couldn’t heal Sherlock, couldn’t ease this and any kind of reasonably effective treatment was centuries away. Assuming that treatment of human depression would be effective against what was depression brought on by something very much in-human.

In humans depression had its roots in many different causes often triggered by trauma or grief, physical illness or inflicted as a symptom of another mental struggle. In Sherlock it was something else entirely, depression was just how it manifested.

With a quiet sigh Mycroft sat down on the edge of Sherlock’s bed and examined the god. He could see the black hole eating away at him, trying desperately to break through Death’s chains. It could no longer sate its unceasing hunger by absorbing from the world around Sherlock, or from Mycroft, so instead it ate at Sherlock. It was not dangerous, not the way leaving it unchecked would have been, but it likely would never entirely go away.

“Mycroft?” Sherlock murmured quietly.

“Yes Sherlock?” Mycroft asked gently laying a hand on his brother’s shoulder.

“I feel wrong,” he whispered and Mycroft sighed inwardly.

“I know,” he answered.

It was not dangerous, not the same way leaving it unchecked would have been, but depression in sentient beings was dangerous in all kinds of other ways.

“Tell me?” he requested and knew that Sherlock was feeling particularly awful if only because he didn’t argue, as was becoming more-or-less Sherlock’s default state when it came to Mycroft’s requests.

“It’s black and sticky,” Sherlock whispered. “Like those tar pits we visited last year.”

“Is it trying to pull you down?” Mycroft asked and Sherlock shook his head, sending black curls flying.

“No, no it’s just there,” he murmured. “Its heavy. I feel… empty. It sucked everything away, good and bad. Mycroft I’m _tired_ ,” he said and there wasn’t even an edge of a whine in his voice as he said it. This was not an overtired child in need of a nap; this was a soul-deep exhaustion. Mycroft gave in to the urge then and scooped Sherlock up, blankets and all and pulled him into Mycroft’s lap, cradling Sherlock in close to his chest.

“Rest then Sherlock,” he said and reached inside himself. He couldn’t do much about the chains, he couldn’t heal Sherlock even if there was something _to_ heal, but he could do this much. He turned his inner self outwards, broadcasting to Sherlock as much peace and love as he could. Sherlock sighed, and relaxed into the offered comfort.

“I’m here little brother,” Mycroft told him. “I’m here and I don’t plan on going anywhere.”

It took three days for Sherlock to drag himself back up out of the depressive episode but Mycroft knew immediately that it had had a profound effect on the young god. He was quieter, more thoughtful, and seemingly more aware of his own moods. That is not to say that he wasn’t still Sherlock, he went from being unable to get out of bed to nearly blowing himself up in some esoteric experiment in the space of four hours, but there was a look in his eyes that hadn’t been there before.

“It’s not gone,” Sherlock said meeting Mycroft’s eyes with those startling silver orbs. His innermost self, still as glittery as it had ever been, strained briefly against the chains. “It’s not _going_ to disappear,” he hesitated then. “Mycroft, why does my body betray me like this?” he asked, too aware and too clever to not realise something wasn’t quite right. “I’m a god; my physical body should be a reflection of my inner being. It _shouldn’t_ impact me like this.”

“No, it shouldn’t,” Mycroft answered. “But Sherlock you are old enough and intelligent enough to know that you aren’t just a god. Not anymore.”

“Then what am I?” Sherlock asked frowning at Mycroft.

“Something impossible, little brother,” Mycroft replied. “Your physical body is a reflection of your innermost self, but it is also a human body and human bodies are not really designed to contain someone like you.”

“Yours does,” Sherlock pointed out, which was fair enough.

“I’m not wearing a human body,” Mycroft answered easily enough. “I’m folding myself into a human-shape. It’s not the same thing,” he paused then and considered how best to explain the concept. “You’re more like Remiel in that respect,” he explained. “You know that she wears a vessel?”

“Yes,” Sherlock nodded.

“And you know that she can only wear specific vessels? That if she were to attempt to inhabit an ordinary human she would do irreversible, even fatal, damage to them?” Mycroft asked and Sherlock nodded. “Your body is similar. It is a body made for a god, when you evolved beyond that it no longer fit. However unlike Remiel you cannot inhabit another body,”

“So how can I get my body to adapt?” Sherlock asked.

“It already is,” Mycroft answered. “Now your headaches aren’t leaving you sick constantly your body is growing quickly and adapting just as quickly to who you are. By the time you are grown it will be far stronger.”

“So the blackness, it will go away when I’m full grown?” Sherlock asked and Mycroft hesitated. The ‘blackness’ as Sherlock called it wasn’t related to his physical body but Mycroft knew why Sherlock thought that. He just wasn’t sure how to best explain to Sherlock something that he was still too young to grasp. “That’s a no,” Sherlock deduced before Mycroft could even begin to speak.

“You’ll adapt to it, but I think this blackness is here to stay,” Mycroft answered quietly.

“Fine,” Sherlock frowned unhappily. That was fine because Mycroft wasn’t very happy either.

**1651**

“You know it wouldn’t kill you to show a little gratitude every once in a while,” Mycroft said dryly as he half-dragged, half-shoved Sherlock along to the huge ornate wooden doors that led into the main university building.

“Why should I?” Sherlock demanded, attempting to dig his heels in to stop him from moving forward but Mycroft just sighed and tugged until the young god couldn’t help but follow ‘less he fall flat on his face.

“Do you know how many people would kill to get the chance to go to this university, let alone at your apparent age?” Mycroft enquired politely. “Yes, a lot of what they will teach you, you will either already know or will be wrong, but there is more to be learned in going to classes than the actual theory,”

“Like what?” Sherlock demanded.

“Discipline for one, responsibility. Time management. Social skills.” Mycroft listed them by rote as the two of them entered the building and immediately turned down a corridor. They would meet with the supervisor Mycroft had already had Remiel investigate and discuss Sherlock’s classes. Mycroft hoped the novelty of talking to an actual scientist, and one that wouldn’t blink at a child genius, would catch Sherlock’s attention. He doubted Sherlock would outright rebel against going to classes, but he’d certainly be a lot more cooperative if he was at least a little interested, which was at least half the reason he’d had Remiel investigate the professor they were going to see beforehand.

“Besides,” he added. “Don’t you want the chance to run experiments in an actual laboratory for once?” he asked and felt the child stop struggling briefly in his hold to consider the thought. “I’m told that the work being done on mechanical philosophy here is truly excellent.”

“You were told?” Sherlock asked skeptically and Mycroft rolled his eyes. Sherlock was doing that more and more, questioning whether Mycroft actually did go to the effort of finding things out himself rather than just knowing.

“It’s as though you don’t believe we’re anything alike Sherlock,” Mycroft told him. “You prefer to run experiments to learn things and confirm theorems, though you know everything there is to know about the current scientific understanding. I am much the same, I _could_ just know, but finding things out myself is much more satisfying,” Sherlock huffed and then they were at the laboratory and he was suddenly very distracted. Let it not be said that Mycroft didn’t know his brother exceptionally well, even without the omniscience, and he stood back and watched as Sherlock stared in wide eyed amazement at everything going on around him.

“Success,” Mycroft mused under his breath, “For now at least.”

It _was_ a success. Sherlock was downright _eager_ to go to the university every day and the fact that his new supervisor made him sit through classes in the morning before letting him anywhere near the laboratory in the afternoon didn’t seem to faze him. Oh he complained about the classes, about all the mistakes and stupid theories that he was being forced to learn, but the prize of the laboratory, talking and working with actual scientists, had him mostly behaving. For nearly eight months Mycroft’s life was blissfully peaceful (in comparison, admittedly, because Sherlock still had a tendency to blow things up). Then, he got the message.

_Someone at the university died, you need to go and collect Sherlock. D._

That Death was sending him such a message spoke volumes about what was going on and Mycroft had abandoned his work to go and find his little brother. He wasn’t that hard to find. He was sat in the morgue, staring with unsettling eyes at the body which had been laid out waiting for the family to come and collect it. Around him the attendants, the police officers, witnesses from the university, all hovered, shooting Sherlock concerned or outright disturbed looks and as Mycroft approached he heard more than one of them whispering under their breath about how unnatural it was for a child to sit and stare at a dead body like that.

A glance at said body told Mycroft all he needed to know. An aneurysm, a completely natural cause of death. He dismissed it from his mind as he focused instead on his brother. He sat down next to the child and placed a hand on his shoulder.

“Sherlock?” he murmured quietly.

“I can see it, Mycroft,” Sherlock whispered in a voice that was both fascinated and a little disgusted. “Popping in his brain. Pop. He didn’t even feel it. He just collapsed and then he was gone,” Mycroft frowned at Sherlock’s words and took the chance to peer in closely at Sherlock himself. What he found surprised him. It seemed that something of Sherlock had tapped into the bindings that enveloped him. It wasn’t doing anything to the bindings themselves, Death’s powers were still incompatible with Sherlock, but it was apparently giving Sherlock an echo of Death’s powers. He was literally seeing the man’s death over and over again.

“Alright Sherlock,” Mycroft said gently. “It’s time to come back now, follow my voice Sherlock, come on,” he coaxed. For a moment Sherlock continued to stare but then he blinked and seemed to come back to himself. He tore his eyes away from the body and looked up at Mycroft instead.

“Mycroft I could see…” he started and Mycroft hushed him. No need to attract more attention than they already had.

“I know,” Mycroft said. “We’ll talk about it at home,” not that there was much to talk about. Mycroft wasn’t sure how to explain this new gift of Sherlock’s without explaining about the bindings, but he did know he wasn’t having that conversation in front of all the humans who were still looking at Sherlock with mixed disgust and pity. Carefully Mycroft pulled Sherlock to his feet and guided him from the room.

Outside the morgue they came across the dead body of a bird, barely more than a chick that had obviously fallen afoul of some local predator before the chaos of the man’s death had chased the predator away. Sherlock came to a halt, staring at the bird, a look of abject fascination on his face.

Given everything, a fascination with death was perhaps not the worst thing in the world, Mycroft tried to tell himself. It was even to be expected. Yet he felt uneasy, because they did not exist inside a vacuum and Sherlock would have to interact with other people more and more as he got older. Humans, Mycroft knew, did not approve of people who were fascinated by death, especially people who, like Sherlock, did not fit the norm in other ways either. Mycroft had a feeling that this new facet of his brother was going to cause Sherlock grief in the future.

At least, he told himself, Sherlock _had_ a future. That had to be worth the consequences. If he kept telling himself that, one day he might even believe it. 

**1670**

One hundred years.

Mycroft wandered along the waterfront in Barcelona watching Sherlock dart around ahead, flitting from one thing to another depending on what caught his attention.

It had been a century since Mycroft was last in this city. A century since he had found a waif of a street child who glittered differently to anything else he had ever seen. Sherlock still glittered, perhaps even more now than he had a century ago, despite the choking black bindings around him, or maybe because of them. Mycroft and Sherlock had been through so much in just a hundred years. They hadn’t perhaps been Mycroft’s most eventful century ever but it certainly ranked highly on that scale. He wondered if the next hundred years would be as eventful.  
Probably, he acknowledged.

“ _My_ -croft!” Sherlock shouted back at him, “Hurry up!”

Mycroft smiled and lengthened his stride slightly. He didn’t regret it. He’d take a life with Sherlock over a life without any day, consequences be damned.

**Author's Note:**

> [1] Thales – Greek Philosopher ‘father of science’, Archimedes – Greek Philosopher, Pythagoras – Greek Mathematician, Socrates – Greek Philosopher, Kidinnu – Babylonian Astronomer, Aryabhata – Indian astronomer and mathematician, Liu Hui – Chinese mathematician, Ibn al-Haytham – Muslim scientist, the ‘first scientist’. All of these were pre-Renaissance scientists who set the foundations for the ‘scientific revolution’ of the mid-sixteenth century during which this fic is set.  
> [2] Roffe – Swedish diminutive of Rolf derived from ‘fame’ and ‘wolf’ – chosen, I freely admit, for the phonics rather than the meaning.
> 
> **Announcement:** I am taking requests for this fic. I have some planned chapters but I have ~400 years to cover and I know you guys can come up with ideas I’d never think of. Just leave a comment on the fic or drop a request in my ask box on [tumblr](http://rasalahuge.tumblr.com/) and I will do my best to accomodate you.
> 
> I only have two restrictions 1) there will be no romance for Mycroft, sorry it’s just not happening. 2) you can ask for any supernatural or sherlock character except: Lucifer, Greg Lestrade, James Moriarty


End file.
